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HISTORIC 
DEEDS 
STDANGER 

HERBERT 
G. SMITH 

B.J.FERNIE xU 
x^ R.S.BLAIR 



^>5(? Christian Herald, Bible House, New York 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 

Two Copies Received 

N'OV 24 1906 

K CoDyficnt Entry , 

^w. >, /f U 

CLASS A XXfc., No. 

ccypY B. 



-«?$;$j$$e$^5* 



CoPYKKillT 1906, BY 

LOUIS KLOPSCH 



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^1 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 

Hexry Hudsox, Xavigator and Discoverer.... 5 

Masaxiello, "The Kingly Fisherman" 21 

Myles Staxdisti, The Puritan Captain 41 

Prixce Rupert, Soldier of Fortune 65 

Sir Willia:m Phifs, 'J'reasure-Seeker and 

Statesman 83 

Bex'^yowsky, "King of Adventurers" 98 

AxTHOXY Wayxe, a Plero of the Revolution.. 12S 

Marixo Fai.iero, The "Fallen Doge" 151 

Chevalier Bayard, The "Peerless Knight" 164 

Daxiel Booxe, Pioneer and State-Founder... 184 
Jacquei.txe de I.aguette, V Seventeenth Cen- 
tury Heroine '. 210 

Lochiel, The "Ulysses of the Highlands" 321 

CouxT Froxtexac, The "Hammer of the 

Iroquois" 248 

William Litiigow, The Unlucky Adventurer. . 266 

Casaxova, Prince of Charlatans 2S-2 

Joiix' Charles Fremoxt, The "Pathfinder"... 310 



PREFACE 

IN these days of dull materialism and prosaic 
money-making, a volume of romantic episodes 
and hair-breadth escapes should be welcome to the 
lovers of adventure. The boy who has revelled in 
the tales of the fairies, and pored over stories of 
fierce giants, and of gallant knights who battled 
with dragons and rescued beautiful maidens from 
enchanted castles, finds the world dolefully im- 
poverished when he quits school and sits at his 
office desk. It would be beneath the dignity of the 
budding lawyer or merchant to believe in fairies and 
goblins, and to enthuse over the deeds of valiant 
champions, who dared unknown perils in the days 
of chivalry. But the qualities he admired in the 
heroes of his childhood days, have their personifica- 
tion in real men, whose daring exploits are the glory 
of the histories of many lands. To glean from the 
pages of history the stories of these illustrious men 
of real life, and to tell the narratives of their 
glorious achievements, has been the work of the 
editors of this book. 

The old saying that "Truth is stranger than fic- 
tion" is certainly borne out in these remarkable 
biographies. We see the gallant Bayard, chevalier, 
sans peur et sans reproche, careering victoriously 
across the battlefields of France and Spain; \ye sail 
with Hendrik Hudson up the then unknown river 
in quest of a new waterway to India; we stand on 
the Bridge of Sighs with Marino Faliero, the fallen 
Doge, whose treachery is the one dark blot on 
Venetian history; we gallop and charge with Ru- 
pert, the "dashing soldier of fortune"; we are 
3 



PREFACE 

spectators in the sublime tragedy of Masaniello's 
rise and fall; we are fascinated and thrilled by the 
almost magical escapades of Benyowsky, "King of 
Adventurers"; and we revel in the pioneering of 
Boone, the founder of States. Here are heroes — 
American, British, French, Polish, Italian — whose 
lives afford us every possible phase of comedy and 
tragedy, and the perusal of whose biographies, as 
here set forth, may encourage strugglers in other 
spheres. 

Such records may do more than interest the 
reader and help to pass away an idle hour. They 
serve to stimulate the indomitable spirit, that is so 
large an element in heroic character. There are 
men in all walks of life, who in crises of their 
careers are confronted by difficulties apparently 
crushing. One man overwhelmed by the flood, suc- 
cumbs and sinks into oblivion, or makes the cow- 
ard's exit by suicide. The braver, more manly 
spirit, is braced by the peril to heroic effort; he 
struggles and resists, and like the men whose deeds 
are chronicled in this volume, rises triumphant 
over the sea of obstacles. It is the spirit in which 
men meet danger which shows of what metal they 
are made. Perhaps some story of strong endur- 
ance, of brilliant courage in these pages may in- 
spire some reader, in his own time of crisis, to dare 
and do. As our own American poet has said; 

"Lives of great men all remind us 

We may make our lives sublime. 
And, departing, leave behind us 

Footprints on the sands of time: 
Footprints, that perhaps another 

Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother. 

Seeing, shall take heart again." 



HENRY HUDSON 

NOT alone in fighting and killing and devastating 
the face of the world is true greatness, 
including romance, to be found. The pages of his- 
tory, while giving precedence to warriors on land 
and sea, contain the records of men of dauntless 
courage, whose peaceful enterprises and achieve- 
ments have added to the world's knowledge and 
spread of civilization. Prominent among these is 
Henry Hudson, the navigator and discoverer. The 
first European to enter the Narrows and set foot 
on the land on which now stands the proud city 
of New York, to sail up the river which now bears 
his name, to brave the perils of the Arctic, and at 
last to give his life a sacrifice in the cause of 
science — in his career truly we may find the ele- 
ments of romance. 

It is singular that of a man of whom England 
and Holland and America have reason to be proud, 
so little is known. Were it not for the painstaking 
search of John Meredith Read, who has collected 
from old records incidental references to this emi- 
nent man, and has pieced them together with extra- 
ordinary labor and skill, we should have known 
scarcely anything of his family or of his early life. 
His biographers had been forced to begin their 
story of the man with his maturity, when he was 
setting out on his first voyage of discovery. Even 
now the early history of the man is a mere outline. 
Neither he nor his contemporaries had any idea of 
5 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

the interest the world would one day take in the 
details of his boyhood and early years. A singu- 
larly modest man was Hudson, who had little to 
say of himself at any time, and even of his dis- 
coveries said only such things as he thought might 
be useful to future settlers. A man, too, of fine 
unselfishness, indifferent to personal gain, content 
that other men should grow rich on his achieve- 
ments. 

But Mr. Read's indefatigable and exhaustive 
research has not elicited all we would know of Hud- 
son's early years. He says: "That Hudson was an 
Englishman, may, indeed, be readily and satisfac- 
torily proved, but as to where and when he was 
born we have no evidence whatever. His birth, 
his home, his parentage, his boyhood, the early 
days of his manhood, and the influences under 
which the character and genius of the great dis- 
coverer were first developed, would be to all mat- 
ters of deepest interest. Unfortunately, we are 
met at the very threshold of our investigations, by 
the fact that absolutely nothing is known of Hudson 
prior to April 19, 1607, when he suddenly appears 
upon the stage of action as a captain in the em- 
ploy of the Muscovy Company, and after a brief 
period of five years of brilliant exploration in the 
service of the English and the Dutch, prematurely 
perishes by treachery amid the scenes of his 
triumph. 

"The story of his wonderful discoveries, his hair- 
breadth escapes, his romantic voyages in wintry 
seas, are familiar as household words, and we are 
prepared to recognize in Hudson the man who, 
three centuries ago, braving untold dangers, 
reached a degree of northern latitude surpassed by 
few modern explorers, and there noting the singu- 
lar amelioration of the climate, orginated the great 
idea of an open Polar sea, a theory which later 



HENRY HUDSON 

investigators have adopted and fully confirmed. In 
England, we find that his memory is perpetuated in 
the title of a gigantic trading corporation, and 
in America, by common consent, his name is affixed 
to most of the great discoveries which he inaugu- 
rated and effected. From the Capes of the Dela- 
ware to the ice-bound shores of the Pole, our con- 
tinent has associations connected with Hudson." 

Hudson suddenly emerges on the world's stage 
in the following record: "Anno 1607, April 19, at 
St. Ethelburge in Bishops Gate Street [London] 
did communicate with the rest of the parishoners, 
these persons, seamen, purposing to goe to sea 
foure dayes after, for to discouer a passage by 
the North Pole to Japan and China. First, Henry 
Hudson, master. Secondly, William CoUines, his 
mate. Thirdly, James Young. Fourthly, John Col- 
man. Fifthly, John Cooke. Sixtly, James Beu- 
bery. Seventhly, James Skrutton. Eigtly, John 
Pleyce. Nintly, Thomas Baxter. Tenthly, Rich- 
ard Day. Elevently, James Knight. Twelfthly, 
John Hudson, a boy." Small indeed for so haz- 
ardous an enterprise was this little party, who, with 
pious spirit, went to the old church to take the 
Lord's Supper before setting out on their voyage. 
One is glad to see the boy's name there, and to 
think that in that lonely journey Hudson had the 
comfort of his son's society. The good clergyman 
who administered the sacrament, doubtless supposed 
that every one would be familiar with the name 
and family of the great explorer, and did nothing 
to satisfy the curiosity of later generations. 

Some clue to Hudson's family is obtained inci- 
dentally from the public record, that in 1555, fifty- 
two years before the good clerg\Tnan's notice. Queen 
Mary, of hateful memory, had granted a charter 
for the founding of the Muscovy Company, and had 
named Henry Hudson as one of the founders and 
7 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

first assistants of the company. Reckoning the 
lapse of time between the two dates and the iden- 
tity of name, we may guess that the Henry Hud- 
son mentioned by Mary may have been the grand- 
father of our explorer. The family was indentified 
with the fortunes of the company, for later in its 
journals we find a Christopher Hudson and a 
Thomas Hudson mentioned among its chief officers. 
In still later records there is mention of a Heard- 
son, a Hodson, and a Hodsdon, probably referring 
to the same persons, written by some clerk whose 
eccentricity of spelling may account for the ortho- 
graphical variety. The company was organized to 
develop trade between England and Russia, and was 
the natural society to which Sebastian Cabot went 
with his idea of there being a northwest passage 
to China, as a society with energy and resources 
for an enterprise that would develop their own bus- 
iness. In a quaint book, published in 1553, there 
in this reference to the society as dealing with 
Cabot: "and after much speeche and conference 
together, it was at last concluded that three shippes 
should bee prepared and furnished out, for the serch 
and discouerie of the northern part of the world, to 
open a way and passage to our men for trauaile to 
newe and unknowen kingdomes." 

The Henry Hudson mentioned by Queen Mary 
was a man of great wealth and influence, a member 
of the Company of Skinners or Tanners, and an 
alderman of London, If he was the grandfather 
of our explorer, M^e may suppose that the boy would 
have the best education available at the time; and 
as the company took into its service promising boys 
as pupils or apprentices, he would be one of the 
number, and so be qualified to go out as captain 
or master in 1607. This Henry Hudson, alderman, 
died of a malignant fever in 1555, and on his tomb 
was the following quaint epitaph: 
8 



HENRY HUDSON 

"Here lyeth Henry Heardson his corps 
Within this tomb of stone: 
His soule (through Christ his death) 

To God in Heaven is gone. 
Whiles that he lived an Alderman 

And Skinner was his state; 
He had to wife one Barbara, 

Which made this tombe you see: 
By whom he had of issue store, 
Eight sonnes and daughters three." 
The man who quotes this epitaph, one Stow, else- 
where in his record spells the name Hudson. This 
man Stow, who wrote A Survey of the City of 
London, probably a kind of guide-book, mentions a 
son of the late Alderman Henry Heardson of the 
name of Henry, who was probably the father of 
our discoverer. There is another reference in a 
book by Abacuk (Habakkuk) Prickett to a Henry 
Hudson, a seaman, who had a house in London. 
Van Meteren, who knew the explorer well, refers to 
him as being a close friend of Captain John Smith, 
who is familiar in our schoolboy reading. 

Hudson's first voyage, of which we have any 
record, the one on which he started four days after 
Purchas noted his being at the church, was made in 
the Hopewell, a little vessel of sixty tons burden. 
In her he reached the eastern coast of Greenland, 
and followed the ice-barrier around and up to lati- 
tude 82 degrees. Having reached the neighborhood 
of Spitzbergen without finding an outlet, he sought 
to penetrate Davis Strait, "by the north of Green- 
land, by Lumley's Inlet and the furious overfall." 
Again frustrated by the ice, he returned to London 
on September 15, 1607, having been absent about 
five months. He had attained a higher latitude than 
had ever been reached by any former explorer, 
and had laid the foundation of the English whale- 
fisheries in those waters. 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

His second voyage, also for the Muscovy Com- 
pany, commenced on April 22, 1608, and was di- 
rected to the discovery of the northeast passage 
over the Pole to China and Japan. He had with 
him again his son John. With him also was Robert 
Juet, who went as mate; a man whom we shall meet 
later in a deplorable capacity. He did, however, 
render important service in this and later voyages, 
by a diary which he kept, and which is still in 
existence. On June 3, 1608, Hudson was off the 
most northern point of Norway, and a week later 
had reached the 75th degree of latitude. Four 
days later he records a strange sight witnessed, he 
says, by several of the crew. "This morning," he 
writes, "one of our companie, looking overboard 
saw a mermaid, and calling up some others of the 
companie to see her, one more came up, and by 
that time shee was come close to the shipp's side, 
looking earnestly on the men; a little after, a sea 
came and overturned her; her back and breasts 
were like a woman's (as they say that saw her), 
her body as big as one of us; her skin very white; 
and long haire hanging downe behind of colour 
blacke;^ in her going downe they saw her tayle, 
which was like the tayle of a Porposse and speckled 
like a macrell. Their names that saw her, were 
Thomas Hilles, and Robert Raynor." So the sturdy, 
truth-loving captain clears his skirts of responsi- 
bility for the remarkable sight, and we have to 
form our own opinion of the character of Hilles 
and Raynor as reliable witnesses. Hudson endeav- 
ored to pass to the northeast of Nova Zembla, but 
"voide of hope of a northeast passage (except by 
the Vaygats, for which I was not fitted to trie or 
prove)," he resolved to use all means to sail to the 
northwest once more, hoping to pass by what 
Captain Davis named, "Lumley's Inlet and the 
furious overfall." But having made little headway, 
10 



HENRY HUDSON 

he returned to England, where he arrived August 
i36, 1608. 

The fame of Hudson's courage and enterprise 
reached the ears of the Dutch East India Company, 
and struck consternation into their hearts. If Hud- 
son found the new route, a heavy blow would be 
struck at the trade then beginning to be extremely 
profitable. So rich had been the results of the busi- 
ness, that the company had declared a dividend 
equal to three-fourths of the original investment, as 
the profits of a single year. Hudson's friend. Van 
Meteren, the Dutch Consul in London, was accord- 
ingly instructed to detach Hudson from the Mus- 
covy Company, and invite him to go out under the 
auspices of the Dutch company on his next voyage. 
For some reason, Hudson had become doubtful of 
the Muscovy Company's - intentions, or he fancied 
they had lost faith in his theories. He therefore 
listened to Van Meteren, and, intent only on mak- 
ing his discovery, was not concerned about the 
nationality of the company willing to send him out. 
In this he mortally offended the English company, 
but was not aware of it at the time. He went over 
to Holland and laid his plans before the Dutch 
company, and they were eager to avail themselves 
of his services. But the obligations of red tape 
must be observed. The council could not make any 
engagement without the consent of the committee 
of seventeen, the next meeting of which would not 
be held until too late to do anything that year. To 
the vexation of Hudson, the expedition would have 
to be postponed for a year. The facts were known 
to the French ambassador at the Hague, who im- 
mediately communicated with King Henry IV, who, 
seeing the value of the opportunity, directed his 
ambassador to make a contract with Hudson. The 
Dutch heard of the project, and, fearing the oppor- 
tunity would slip from their grasp, secured the 
11 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

consent of the council of seventeen individually, 
and reopened negotiations with Hudson. They 
made him a formal offer to equip a ship, and agreed 
to pay him $320 for his outfit, and in the event of 
his losing his life on the voyage, to pay to his 
family a further sum of $80. So lightly did they 
estimate the value of a life worth millions to the 
world. Hudson promptly closed with the offer. 
Soon afterward, the French King accepted Hudson's 
terms, but found him already pledged to the Dutch. 
Otherwise New York, which was discovered on this 
voyage, would have been founded under the French 
flag instead of under the Dutch. 

The contract was extremely rigid. Hudson was 
to sail around the north side of Nova Zembla. If 
he failed to find the long-sought passage by tha": 
route, he was to try no other, but return to Holland, 
and the company would then consider any other 
route he might suggest. Thus bound, Hudson sailed 
from Amsterdam on April 4, 1609, in the Half 
Moon, a yacht of eighty tons burden, with a motley 
crew of sixteen or eighteen men, partly English and 
partly Dutch. Robert Juet went with him again, 
this time as captain's clerk or secretary. 

Hudson took with him memoranda that he had 
received from his friend, Jodocus Hondius, an en- 
graver and mapmaker, who was deeply interested 
in Arctic exploration. The celebrated geographer. 
Rev. Peter Plancius, had also given him translations 
of Barentson's voyages in 1505, and of the treatise 
of Ivar Bardson Boty, and the log-books of George 
Waymouth. He also had obtained from his friend. 
Captain John Smith, of Pocahontas fame, then in 
Virginia, a description of a great sea, said to exist 
in the far north, connecting with a western ocean. 
The fact that he took these documents with him, 
suggests the thought that he did not propose to 
abide literally by his contract with the Dutch 
12 



HENRY HUDSON 

company, to return to Holland if he was unable to 
find a passage around the north side of Nova 
Zembla. 

On reaching Nova Zembla, Hudson found the 
channel so full of ice, that he immediately decided 
that an attempt to find the passage by that route 
was hopeless. According to his instructions, he 
should then have returned, but eager to make his 
discovery, and reluctant to return to Holland with- 
out any result, he determined to proceed to the 
American coast. Of course, he had no idea of the 
extent of the continent, and he hoped that he might 
find a channel through it to the north. 

As he steered southward, and when off the coast 
of Maine, the Half Moon was nearly wrecked, A 
fierce gale sprang up, in which she lost her fore- 
mast. Repairs were made with what speed was 
possible, and preparations were nearly complete for 
a new start, when the Half Moon was suddenly 
surrounded by canoes of Indians, fully armed and 
evidently hostile. The captain and the little crew 
knew well what would be their fate should the red- 
skins climb up the sides of the little vessel. Hud- 
son was a humane man, and more inclined to con- 
ciliate the Indians than to fight them, but, says Juet, 
"we were compelled to employ our two 'stone mur- 
derers,' to beat off the savages." We can imagine 
what must have been the effect on the light Indian 
canoes of the volley from the wide-mouthed cul- 
verins. They must have been annihilated by that 
hissing hail of stones, and the Indians, appalled by 
the havoc of the white man's thunder-weapons, swam 
away in terror. 

Resuming his voyage southward, still looking for 
his channel in vain, he arrived opposite James River 
in Virginia. Then, turning about, he steered north- 
ward to examine the coast more carefully. On 
August 28, he entered the great bay now known as 
13 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

Delaware Bay, where, after a fruitless quest for his 
channel to the Pole, he continued his voyage along 
the New Jersey coast, and on September 3 an- 
chored outside Sandy Hook. 

Hudson's journal of this momentous third voyage 
is lost, and we have to depend on the record kept 
by Juet, which we have reason to believe differed 
materially from Hudson's own account. The facts, 
however, disregarding motives and opinions, are 
doubtless identical. Juet says that on the following 
day (September 4, 1609), the boat was sent forward 
to sound, and reporting five fathoms, the Half Moon. 
entered, and found it "a very good harbor." How 
many fleets of all nations, passing through the 
same channel in after years, have endorsed poor 
Juet's opinion! The vessel, however, drifted 
aground, and "we drove on shoare," but, says the 
pious rascal, "we tooke no hurt, thanked bee God ! 
The people of the countrie came on boord of us, 
seeming very glad of our comming and brought us 
green tabacco and gave us of it for knives and 
beads." Little did the uncultured people of the 
"countrie" know what would be the results of that 
"comming," otherwise a very different reception 
would have met the Dutch secretary and his English 
master. "They goe in deerskins loose," continues 
the Dutchman, "and are well dressed. They desire 
cloathes and are very civill. The countrie is full 
of great and tall oake." On the following day the 
vessel floated with the tide, and after waiting four 
days and sounding, the Half Moon entered the 
river, afterward to be known as the Hudson, and 
found it seven fathoms. Slowly, and sending the 
boat forward at every stage to sound, the ship 
proceeded up the beautiful river. They found it 
"nearly a mile wide, with very high land on both 
sides." 

It is interesting to learn what the Indians thought 
14 



HENRY HUDSON 

of the visitors. In a conversation some years after- 
wards with the Rev. John Hockwelder, a Moravian 
missionary, an Indian, who in his youth witnessed 
Hudson's arrival in New Yorlc Bay, described the 
sensation it caused among the redskins. The first 
news was that there was a gigantic fish in the bay. 
Some more intelligent Indians were at once sent to 
see it and report. They took back word that the 
strange visitor was a huge canoe of several stories, 
in which there were living men of a new race. Their 
faces were white, and there was one of them clad in 
red (an English uniform). It was decided in sol- 
emn council that the visitors were an embassage 
from Manitto (the name of the Indian Supreme 
Being), that the man in red was Manitto himself 
and the others were his servants. It was resolved 
to receive them with all honor. The next day Hud- 
son, the man in red, went on shore with several 
others, and his kind and friendly face disarmed 
the fears of the Indians. He drank something out 
of a cup, and gave the cup to his men, who drank 
too. They offered some to the Indians, and one of 
the chiefs drank it up. He was immediately seized 
with pain, staggered around, rolled on the ground, 
and at last fell asleep, and the Indians thought he 
was dead. But the same night he recovered and 
said he had suffered no hurt. 

Hudson deemed it advisable to keep two of the 
Indians who came on board as hostages. They were 
as scared as captive birds when they found them- 
selves detained, and first one and then the other 
contrived after a day or two to make their escape. 
Very few, however, were so timid. There is a 
tradition that when the Half Moon reached a point 
a little above the site where Yonkers now stands, 
and waited for the return of the boat that had 
been sent forward to sound, an old man came on 
board and courteously signified by gestures that 
15 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

he wanted Hudson to go on shore. Few men would 
have been so bold as to accept an invitation which 
might have involved his being captured and held 
prisoner. But Hudson knew no fear, and willingly 
went with his host. He found him to be a chief, 
ruling over forty warriors. The chief conducted 
him to his abode, a circular house built of oak. 
There the forty men were assembled, with seventeen 
women. A repast was hurriedly prepared, and 
brought in red bowls made of wood. Mats were laid 
for the guests to sit on, and two warriors were sent 
out with bows and arrows to shoot game. They 
soon returned, having shot two pigeons and a fat 
dog. The latter was prepared for the oven, by be- 
ing scraped with shells. Hudson and his men stayed 
while the cooking was being done, and afterwards 
partook of the repast with what appetite they could 
find. He was urged to stay all night, but declined. 
The Indians were evidently disappointed. They 
thought Hudson feared them. To convince him of 
their peaceful disposition, they brought in their 
arrows and broke them in his presence and threw 
them on the fire. But he hoped to sail farther in 
the morning, for a favorable wind was blowing, and 
he returned to his ship. 

The next day the voyage was resumed, and 
reached a stage vaguely described in Juet's journal 
as "two leagues above the shoals." There the Half 
Moon waited, while the boat went forward to sound. 
The Indians again came on board, bringing grapes, 
tobacco, and a few beaver skins, and seemed per- 
fectly satisfied with some beads, knives and scissors 
in payment. 

On the twenty- second day, the Half Moon being 
then opposite where Albany now is, the boat re- 
turned, reporting the river "to bee at an end for 
shipping to goe in." So they turned about and 
sailed back toward the bay, being satisfied that this 
16 



HENRY HUDSON 

was not the channel to China. All through the 
voyage they had been kindly and courteously 
treated, and though they had not treated the Indians 
well, they had received nothing but hospitality. As 
they neared the northern end of Manhattan Island, 
there was a change in the demeanor of the Indians. 
The two men who had been held as hostages and 
escaped, had been highly incensed by their detention, 
and stirred up the Indians to attack the Half Moon. 
Knowing she must eventually come down the river, 
they lay in wait, and when she appeared greeted 
her with a flight of arrows. The reply was a volley 
from the muskets of the crew, and three Indians 
fell dead. A crowd of about a hundred Indians 
were watching the attack from the banks, and were 
furious when they saw their brethren killed. They 
seized canoes and raced after the ship. By that 
time the "stone murderers" had been got ready, 
and bellowed a thunderous peal with a hail of 
stones. The canoes were sunk or scattered, and 
many of the occupants were killed. The Half 
Moon continued her course, and on October 4, a 
month and a day after entering the Narrows, they 
spread the mainsail and entered the open sea; 
Hudson, during the voyage home, preparing for 
the Dutch company a glowing account of his dis- 
covery of "The Great River of the Mountains," 
which later generations call by his name. 

They arrived at Dartmouth, England, Nov. 7, 
1609, having little idea of the momentous results of 
the voyage. The Dutch company were notified, and 
ordered the vessel to proceed to Amsterdam. This, 
however, the English Government would not permit. 
Hudson and the Englishmen on board were forbid- 
den to leave England, but "to serve their own 
country." Many persons, says the chronicler, 
thought it rather hard and unfair that these sailors 
should thus be prevented from laying their accounts 
17 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

and reports before their employers, chiefly as the 
enterprise in which they had been engaged was such 
as to benefit navigation in general. But the English 
Government was obdurate. They did not know, but 
suspected, how much had been lost by the Dutch 
gaining the result of Hudson's genius, and they 
would not allow him in future to serve under any 
flag but the British. They had more reason than 
they then knew for their decision. They detained 
the Half Moon until the summer of the following 
year, and before it sailed, Hudson was again sent 
under British auspices to the frozen North. 

On April 17, 1610, Henry Hudson sailed on his 
fourth and last voyage. The vessel was the Dis- 
covery, a ship of seventy tons, and his crew a reck- 
less, insubordinate, and dissolute gang. Again his 
son John accompanied him, and Robert Juet was 
again his mate. On this voyage was a young man 
named Henry Green, who went as a guest of Hud- 
son's. Hudson had found him naked and half- 
starved, had fed and clothed him. Finding him a 
young man of good education and some intelligence, 
he had taken an interest in him. Hudson ofl'ered 
to take him on his voyage if he could get an outfit. 
Green's mother was appealed to. She firmly re- 
fused to do anything for him, pronounced him an 
unmitigated rascal, without gratitude, principle or 
morals. Hudson should have been warned, for a 
man must be very bad before his mother will turn 
against him. But the great navigator was a guile- 
less, generous man, and would not withdraw the 
promise he had made. Besides, taken away from 
London and its temptations, kept from liquor, which 
was his chief temptation, the young man might 
reform. Hudson sent a more urgent message to 
the mother, and she finally yielded so far as to 
advance five pounds toward an outfit, but strictly 
on the condition that it was not to be given to the 
18 



HENRY HUDSON 

young man, but expended for him by some honest 
person. With such a character Hudson could not 
secure him employment on the ship, but was allowed 
to take him as his guest, and he promised the young 
man to remunerate him out of his own pocket. 

The object of the voyage was as before, the dis- 
covery of the northwest passage across the Polar 
Sea to India and China. He hoped, as before, to 
find it by way of Lumley's Inlet. Again he was 
shut out by the ice. In latitude 61, he turned his 
course along the western shore, looking for a chan- 
nel. Finally, he entered "a great wide sea," which, 
though he knew it not, was merely the bay that now 
bears his name. He was full of hope and was about 
to proceed, when a mutiny broke out among his 
crew. Never was plight so pitable. Believing him- 
self on the verge of the discovery which he had 
sought so long, and thwarted by a miserable, discon- 
tented crowd of cowards, the great man, alone in 
that desolate sea, far from civilization, was at their 
mercy. He made a strong appeal to them. Calling 
all on deck, he spread his charts before them, ex- 
plained his course, and tried to enlist their support 
and arouse their enthusiasm. It was all of no avail. 
They said the ship had been provisioned for eight 
months, and they had already been ten months 
away from home. The food was scarce and bad, 
they would return. Hudson begged and pleaded, 
and at last, with whispers and consultation, which 
should have put him on his guard, they agreed to go 
forward. 

The apparent consent of the crew was a mere 
blind. Henry Green, the young man he had be- 
friended, was to justify his mother's estimate of 
his character. Stealthily he went from one to 
another, urging them to save themselves, which, he 
said, could never be done while Hudson was in com- 
mand. Gradually he won over the majority. One or 
19 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

two refused to yield, and denounced the scheme. But 
Green had sufficient supporters. One morning 
Hudson was seized as he came on deck, and his 
hands tied behind him. He was thrust on board 
the boat, and with him were sent his son John, all 
the sick, and the one or two who were faithful to 
him. The Discovery, under Green's command, 
spread sail, and left Hudson and his companions to 
their fate. Even at the last, when the boat was far 
off on the horizon, some of the crew relented, and 
pleaded with Green to wait and take the master 
back on board. He surlily answered that there was 
not food enough for those on the ship, and he would 
not wait for the best man on earth. He knew that 
when he got back to England he might be hanged 
for what he was doing, but he preferred to be 
hanged in England rather than to starve to death 
in the Arctic. In a few minutes the boat was left 
behind, and nothing was ever again seen of Henry 
Hudson, the bravest and noblest of British seamen. 

On the way homeward, the vessel, under Green's 
unskilful guidance, ran ashore among hostile In- 
dians, and Green and several others were killed. 
Juet, who had been an enemy and a leader of the 
mutiny, then took charge and brought the Discovery 
back to England. The crew were at once put in 
prison, while a vessel was hurriedly sent out to 
search for Hudson and his companions. It re- 
turned without success. They had either been 
drowned, captured by hostile Indians, or starved to 
death. wSo ended a life full of self-sacrificing labor, 
of courage undaunted, and of noble endurance in 
the cause of science. 

B. J. F. 



20 



MASANIELLO 

MASANIELLO was born at Amalfi in the year 
1622. His father was a fisherman, and 
the child first saw the light among the nets and 
basivets of a little hut on the sea-coast. His 
birth was attended by an augury. It is said that an 
ancient monk, whose glittering eyes and snowy 
beard had gained for him among the village folk 
the reputation of a prophet, once visited the 
cottage, and having looked long upon the child as 
it lay asleep in its poor cradle, broke forth into a 
prediction that the boy would some day rise to 
more than kingly power, but that his empire would 
be brief and his fall sudden. The seer who uttered 
such a prophecy deserved his fame. The story of 
Masaniello — one of the most romantic in the history 
of mankind — fulfilled the oracle; with what exact- 
ness, and by what events, we propose to call to 
mind. 

The boy was brought up to his father's trade. 
When he was about his twentieth year he left Amalfi 
and crossed the bay to Naples. There he took a 
garret in a house which overhung a corner of the 
great market square, and married a girl no richer 
than himself; and thenceforward every morning, as 
soon as the sun rose up behind the black peaks 
of Vesuvius, his boat was to be seen dancing over 
the blue waters of the bay. 

The life of a fisherman is hard and poor. Masa- 
niello went barefooted. His dress was the common 
dress of the fisherman of Naples — loose linen 
trousers, a blue blouse, and a red cap. But his 
21 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

figure, though not tall, was striking; his face was 
handsome; his eyes black, large, and glittering; and 
there was about him a peculiar air of self-reliance, 
the index of a bold, capable, and fiery mind. 

For about four years he lived quietly, in poverty, 
yet not perhaps in discontent. But the Spanish 
Viceroys who ruled Naples, and who had long 
waxed fat upon the taxes, were yearly sucking 
deeper of the people's blood. A tax was set on fish, 
a tax on flour, a tax on poultry, wine, milk, cheese, 
salt. At last a tax on fruit, the fare on which the 
lower classes chiefly lived, brought the city to the 
brink of a revolt. Yet it is probable that, even 
then, without a leader, the popular excitement would 
have died away in empty threats and mutterings. 
At this crisis, the agents of the Government hap- 
pened to fall foul of Masaniello. A basket of his 
fish which had not paid the tax was seized and 
carried to the castle. The same day his wife was 
stopped as she was carrying in her apron a small 
quantity of flour, was dragged to the receipt of 
custom, and being found to have no money, either 
to pay the duty or to bribe the agents, was locked 
up in a cell. 

They had better have hanged a hundred lazza- 
roni on the gibbet in the market-place. Masaniello 
was stung to madness. From that moment his sole 
thought was of revenge. 

The most tremendous weapon known to man was 
ready to his hand — a city on the verge of riot. His 
measures were soon taken. In appearance they 
were harmless, even trifling; but in truth they M^ere 
most dexterously planned. He began by collecting 
in the market-place a knot of boys. To each of 
these he taught a phrase of words, and gave a little 
cane, bearing on the top a streamer of black linen, 
like a flag. Soon five hundred, and at last two 
thousand, of these volunteers were going up and 
22 



MASANIELLO 

down the city. In the hovels of the lazzaroni, 
among the stalls of the fruit-sellers, before the 
gates of the toll-houses, under the windows of the 
Spanish nobles, everywhere their slender ensigns 
fluttered, and the pregnant words were heard: "God 
be with us, and the King of Spain ! But down with 
the Government, the fruit-tax, and the devil !" 

Masaniello's scholars made a vast sensation. A 
few of the spectators mocked and jeered; but the 
seed was scattered in no stony soil. It sprang up 
and flourished; and in three days it was ready to 
bear fruit. 

It was Sunday, July 7, in the year 1647. The 
day was the festival of " The Lady of the 
Carmes," a day which had for centuries been held 
in celebration of an ancient victory achieved against 
the Moors. It was the custom on that day to erect 
in the market-place a wooden castle, which was 
defended by a company of boys, while another 
company, half-naked and painted red, with turbans 
on their heads, in imitation of the Moors, assailed 
its battlements with a storm of apples, melons, 
cucumbers, and figs. This spectacle, which usually 
ended in a free fight and uproar, was, as might 
have been expected, excessively popular among the 
lower classes; and that morning, at the hour at 
which the fruit-growers from the villages began, as 
usual, to pour into the city, the square was already 
thronged with thousands of spectators. 

The performance had not yet begun; the crowd 
was waiting, idle and unemployed, ready to wel- 
come any manner of excitement; when suddenly a 
startling cry was heard. One of the fruit-sellers 
had refused to pay the tax ! 

The man was Arpaja of Pozzuoli, Masaniello's 

cousin. The plot had been arranged between them. 

On being called upon to pay the duty, Arpaja flew 

into a rage. "God gives us plenty," he exclaimed 

23 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

in a loud voice, "and our cursed Government a 
famine. The fruit is not worth selling; let it go!" 
And with the words he kicked over his baskets, and 
sent the gourds and oranges rolling on the ground. 

At that instant, as the crowd stood breathless in 
excitement, a voice sent forth a cry of "No more 
taxes !" The voice was Masaniello's. The crowd 
caught up the words; they swelled into a thunder. 
In an instant the rebellion was afoot. 

Andrea Anaclerio, the elect of the people, rushed 
out of his palace, and threatened Arpaja with the 
whip. But a storm of sticks and melons flew about 
his ears; a large stone struck him on the breast; 
and he was glad to fly for refuge. 

Masaniello sprang upon a fruiterer's table. The 
crowd already recognized their leader. He began 
to speak: and he spoke with a certain rude and 
fiery oratory which moved his hearers more than 
eloquence. He bade them rejoice, for the hour 
of their deliverance was at hand. St. Peter, once a 
fisherman, had beaten down the pride of Satan and 
released the world from bondage; so likewise would 
he, Masaniello, another fisherman, strike off^ the 
bonds of the most Faithful People. Let them pay 
no more taxes; let them win back with fire and 
sword the ancient Privilege of Naples, the right of 
freedom from all taxes, which the Spaniards had 
infringed. His own life might fall; his head might 
ride aloft upon a pole. But to die in such a cause 
would be his glory. 

There is no rhetoric which thrills its hearers like 
that which gives the echo to their passions. The 
crowd broke into a fierce shout, and turned with 
exultation to the work of ravage. The first object 
was the toll-house in the square. Faggots drenched 
with pitch were hurled in at the windows; a lighted 
torch was added; and the building in a few minutes 
was a pile of raging flames. Then there was a cry 
24 



MASANIELLO 

for arms. A ponderous beam was brought and 
wielded by strong men, the gates of the Carmine 
Tower were beaten in, and the crowd rushed eagerly 
upon the pikes and halberds. Clubs, knives, and 
bars of iron were pressed into the service; and the 
mob, thus armed, preceded by the banner-boys of 
Masaniello, turned in their wild justice towards the 
pala-e of the V^iceroy. 

Their way lay past the prison of St. James. 
They halted there to burst the doors and to add 
the prisoners to their number. 

At length they reached the palace. The guards 
who stood at arms before the gates were swept 
away. The Viceroy, Ponce de Leon, Duke of Arcos, 
and those about him, strove to secure themselves 
behind the inner doors. But the barricades were 
broken in. The Duke was hunted like a thief from 
room to room, and forced at last, at the peril of 
his life, to drop from a back window by a rope, 
and to fly in a close carriage to the castle of St. 
Elmo. 

Then the palace was sacked from floor to roof. 
A great fire was kindled in the street. Rare and 
costly furniture, hangings, pictures, jewels, golden 
dishes, goblets stamped with the proud arms of 
Ponce de Leon, were hurled out of the windows, and 
piled into the flames. Yet in all this, and through- 
out the whole revolt, there was no private theft. 
These riches were held as things accursed, as treas- 
ures purchased by the people's blood, and worthy 
only to be sacrificed in the hour of their revenge. 

And now the people, drunk with the giddy wine 
of vengeance, required no further rousing. The 
time had come for discipline, for order, and re- 
straint; and Masaniello turned with all his vigor 
to the work. Then was seen the power of a com- 
manding mind. In a marvellously short space of 
time, the mob became an army. Parties, each led 
25 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

by its own captain, and missioned to its separate 
duty, began to go forth through the city ; searching 
the armorer's shops for weapons; tearing down the 
Spanish standard from the Carmine Tower, and 
planting in its place the ancient flag of Naples; 
marching through the streets, with trumpets singing 
and drums rolling, collecting volunteers; bursting 
open the prisons of St. Maria and St. Archangel; 
dragging the cannon from the bastion of San 
Lorenzo, and setting the great bells pealing an 
alarm. As often as the Spanish soldiers met with 
a detachment of the rioters, a fierce fight arose; 
lives were lost on both sides; but the guards were 
always overpowered. All business became suspended. 
The shopkeepers shut up their shops, and joined the 
rebels. The nobles, and the farmers of the taxes, 
with beating hearts and faces white with terror, 
barred themselves inside their palaces. Only a 
train of monks, in stoles of white, with censers in 
their hands, ventured, about the hour of Vespers, 
to issue from the Convent of St. Paul, and to pass 
with prayers for peace along the streets. 

When night fell, Masaniello was at the head of 
fifty thousand men. Nor did darkness check the 
course of his proceedings. Thousands of candles, 
torches, cressets, watch-fires blazing at every corner 
of the streets, made the city as bright as day. Re- 
cruits came streaming in without cessation. And 
all night the work went on. 

As soon as day began to break, new swarms of 
volunteers, equipped with sickles, pitchforks, scythes, 
and even spits and pokers, came pouring in from 
all the country round. But the arms most used that 
day were links and torches. A platform was 
erected in the market-place; and there Masaniello 
sat, and gave his orders. The toll-house in the 
square was now in cinders; but in diflferent quarters 
of the city there were several others. Masaniello 
26 



MASANIELLO 

drew up a list of these, together with sixty of the 
proudest palaces in Naples, which their owners had 
enriched or built out of the produce of the taxes. 
All these were ordered to be burnt; and throughout 
that day, and far into the night, parties were going 
forth unceasingly with faggots, pitch, and torches. 
Women and children helped the work with sacks of 
straw and cans of oil. In every quarter of the city 
some haughty edifice, the home of a Mirabello or an 
Aquavana, was turned into a heap of smoking ruins. 
Treasures of all kinds, and of untold value, perished 
in the flames. Pictures of the Madonna and the 
saints were alone held sacred, were preserved, and 
hung up in the churches. Nothing was taken by 
the people. So strong on this point was the public 
feeling, that one of the rioters who ventured to pick 
up a silk scarf was instantly dragged into the 
market-place, and hanged by a fierce crowd. 

Meanwhile, the Viceroy had stolen secretly from 
St. Elmo, and was now shut up in Castel Nuovo, 
which was kept by a strong guard. From the castle 
he sent out his orders. But the few bands of 
guards which he could spare were entirelj^ useless; 
and in truth the Duke was in a desperate pass. He 
tried tactics, and he tried devotion. He sent out 
the Duke of Maddaloni and the Prior of Rocella 
with a piece of parchment, which he pretended was 
the Privilege of Naples. But the crowd immedi- 
ately found out the trick; the Prior was hooted, and 
the Duke came near to being torn in pieces. He 
then bethought himself of St. Gennaro; and in the 
chapel of the great cathedral, the chapel in which, 
three times a year, the holy head, enshrined in silver, 
is still laid upon the altar, while tne priest lifts up 
before a crowd of pilgrims the vials of sacred 
blood, the august relics were displayed. The saint, 
however, wrought no miracle ; and the Viceroy passed 
the night in agonies of uncertainty and trepidation. 
27 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

While the Duke was quaking in the castle, Masa- 
niello's power was rising higher every hour. He 
was already, indeed, in everything but name, the 
governor of Naples. The proud and beautiful city 
was at his feet. The haughty cavaliers of Spain 
durst not wag their fingers; for the number of his 
followers was now at least a hundred thousand. 
His throne of timber in the market-place was sur- 
rounded by battalions of armed men, ready to carry 
out his slightest orders. Beside him, at a table, six 
clerks were constantly employed in writing out his 
edicts. One of these proclamations, which is re- 
corded, shows that Masaniello possesed, like all born 
leaders, a falcon's eye for details. The nobility 
were ordered to walk out without their cloaks, 
monks to put off their cassocks, and ladies to wear 
no skirts that swept the ground; for in all such gar- 
ments arms might be concealed. The Law Courts 
were shut up. Criminals of every rank and station 
were dragged before that strange tribunal at which 
Masaniello was both judge and jury. In one corner 
of the market-place a gibbet was set up; and the 
course of justice was of the swift and ready kind. 

So vast was the first change in Masaniello's 
fortune ! Two days had sufficed to raise him from 
the task of mending nets and hawking mullets, to a 
throne as absolute as an emperor's. 

The Viceroy was secure within the castle; but 
the castle was kept in a close state of siege. No 
provisions could pass in; and the Duke, and the 
scores of lords and ladies who had found refuge 
with him, were beginning to feel miserably in want 
of meat and poultry, fruit and wine and snow. A 
spy brought word that Masaniello was preparing a 
new list of palaces to be set in flames that night. 
The Duke's mind had been wavering; he saw no 
hope in holding out; these tidings turned the scale; 
and he gave way. 

28 



MASANIELLO 

It was the afternoon of Tuesday; Masaniello was 
sitting on his bench of judgment; when a packet 
from the Viceroy was put into his hand. He tore 
it open before the crowd. It contained the true 
parchment of tlie Privilege; and in a letter which 
accompanied the parchment, the Duke expressed his 
willingness to grant, without reserve, the prayer of 
the most Faithful People. 

The populace received the news with raptures of 
delight. It was rapidly arranged that the Viceroy, 
with the chief officers of state, should meet the 
people on the morrow in the Carmine Church, when 
the treaty should be ratified on oath, and a solemn 
service held in celebration. The insurgents were 
still kept under arms. But to all appearance the 
revolt was at an end. The remainder of the day 
passed quietly. All the city, in joyful anticipation, 
looked forward to the morrow. 

But this spirit of contentment was destined to be 
roughly broken. Masaniello's chief subalterns were 
Genovino, a fierce old monk, and Perrone, the cap- 
tain of a crew of bandits who had their dens among 
the gorges of Vesuvius. The latter, who had joined 
the cause in the confident belief that his five hun- 
dred desperadoes would enjoy a thieves' paradise 
among the treasures of the palaces, had been bit- 
terly deceived, and was at heart a traitor. His 
opportunity was soon to come. That night he had 
an interview with the Duke of Maddaloni and his 
brother, Don Carafa. From that meeting the ban- 
dit carried off a heavy bag of gold. Nor was the 
treasure paid for nothing. Judas had received the 
price of blood. It was agreed that on the mor- 
row, during the ceremony in the church, and in full 
view of the spectators, Masaniello should be shot 
dead. 

The morrow came. At noon the great church 
of The Lady was crowded to the doors. Perrone's 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

bravos, to the number of three hundred, were 
scattered here and there among the crowd. A gor- 
geous canopy had been set up before the altar, 
above the crimson cushions of the Viceroy and the 
Bishop. Masaniello w^as standing on the altar- 
steps, a bare sword in his right hand, surounded by 
a host of lords and cardinals, conspicuous, among 
robes of scarlet and tunics laced with silver, by his 
fisherman's shirt and his cap without a feather. The 
Viceroy had not yet arrived; but the music of his 
bugles could be heard approaching. This was the 
moment on which the conspirators had fixed. Per- 
rone suddenly held up his hand; and from different 
parts of the church seven carbines were instantly 
fired point-blank at Masaniello. Two of these were 
so near him that the flash of the explosion singed 
his blouse. The others struck the altar at his side. 
Yet, wonderful to state, not one of the seven balls 
so much as grazed him. 

The bandits had relied with confidence on the 
fall of Masaniello, and the confusion and dismay 
of his adherents. Their error cost them dear. 
When the smoke cleared off, and he was seen still 
standing on the altar-steps, their hearts misgave 
them. And they had good cause for terror. The 
crowd, raging with fury, turned upon them; and 
in a moment the church was ringing with the din 
of battle. The desperadoes, men whose whole lives 
had been passed in fighting, now fought like wild 
beasts brought to bay. But the contest was not 
equal, and they fought in vain. Soon, above the 
roar of voices and the clash of arms, were heard the 
yells of wretches being torn in pieces in front of 
the great altar. A part escaped into the adjoining 
convent; but these were quickly hunted out and 
butchered. A few got clear away into the moun- 
tains and plunged into the darkness of their dens. 
Perrone, who was seized alive, but covered with 
30 



MASANIELLO 

wounds, was dragged into the square, and impelled 
by threats of torture to reveal the authors of the 
plot. He had just gasped out the names of Mad- 
daloni and Carafa when he fell back dead. 

Two hundred poles were set up in a circle about 
Masaniello's throne; the corpses of the traitors 
were beheaded; and soon the fierce head of a 
bandit grinned on every pole. Two poles, higher 
than the rest, were placed before the platform, and 
left vacant. One of these waited for the head of 
Maddaloni; the other, for the head of Don Carafa. 

The Duke had taken refuge in the monastery 
of St. Efrem. A spy warned him that his hiding- 
place was discovered. He stole out of the convent 
in a monk's gown and cowl, mounted a swift horse, 
struck the spurs up to the rowels, and galloped for 
his life to Benevento. He was just in time. The 
crowd, failing to find him in the convent, burnt his 
palace to the ground, and turned in search of Don 
Carafa. 

The Don was less lucky than his brother. A 
monk from the convent of Zoccolanti was seen 
stealing towards the gates of Castel Nuovo. He 
was seized, and a note found sewn into his sandal. 
It was from Carafa to the Viceroy; he was hiding 
in the convent; and he implored the Duke to send 
a guard, with cannon, to protect him. The convent 
was instantly attacked, Carafa, in a friar's frock, 
sprang out of a window, rushed into a cottage, and 
crawled under a bed. The woman of the cottage 
made a signal to the crowd; and in a moment 
Carafa was dragged out, and hacked to pieces. 
His head was borne in triumph to the market 
square and set up in its place; his right foot, en- 
closed in a kind of iron cage, was fixed beneath 
it; and under the ghastly effigy was written this 
inscription: "This is the head and foot of Don 
Carafa, traitor to the most Faithful People." 
31 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

Seldom has a more terrific spectacle of warning 
Made the blood of men run chill. 

The plot had failed. Masaniello was stronger 
than ever. His escape was regarded by the people 
as a miracle. Henceforth he was regarded with a 
double honor, as the champion of the people and as 
the favorite of Heaven. 

All thought of the Privilege had, for the time, 
been driven from men's minds. It was evening 
when the Viceroy, who had shut himself up again 
in Castel Nuovo, sent out a letter to disclaim all 
knowledge of the plot. He was probably sincere; 
for the Duke, had he conspired against an enemy, 
was more likely to have planted a stiletto in his 
back than to have shot him in the open. His 
protest was accepted. Masaniello returned word, 
that he proposed to ride next morning to the castle, 
and to have some private conference with his Grace 
about the public weal. 

That day marked the height of Masaniello's 
power. As soon as it was known that he proposed 
to ride in public through the city the people pre- 
pared for an ovation. The houses were decked 
as for a day of festival. Garlands of flowers and 
myrtle-branches strewed the streets, and twined 
round every balcony and doorway. Gorgeous arras, 
tapestries, and banners of rich stuifs, hung out of 
all the windows; and every point of outlook, on 
window, roof and balcony, was alive with eager 
gazers. The procession started from the Carmine 
Church. First came a band of heralds, waving 
flags and blowing silver bugles; then troops of 
mounted soldiers, glittering in coats of mail; and 
then a company of boys and young girls, gaily 
dressed, with baskets in their hands, tossing a 
shower of flowers before the hero's horse. Masa- 
niello had, that day, put off' his humble garb; and 
the people with delight beheld their leader in a 
32 



MASANIELLO 

suit of silver satin, a hat witli a gay plume, and 
a sword bestarred with jewels, prancing upon a 
steed as white as snow equipped in gold and azure. 
Behind him came the carriage of the Cardinal, and 
the sedan of his chief counsellor; and the cavalcade 
moved slowly to the castle, with the splendor of 
the pageant of a king. 

Masaniello was received at the castle gates by 
the Captain of the Duke's Guard. He alighted, 
and attended by the Cardinal ascended the steps 
towards the entrance. In front of the portico he 
turned, and in a loud voice charged his followers, 
that if he failed to reappear within an hour, they 
should burst with fire and sword into tlie castle, 
and demand the reason. At this hint of treachery 
the people shouted fiercely. Masaniello, as he 
turned away, drew out of his breast a scroll of 
writing. It was the parchment of the Privilege. 
And at that sight, more eloquent than words, the 
great crowd roared again. 

Whatever treason Ponce de Leon might be hatch- 
ing — and the suspicion did him no injustice — he 
received his visitor with the most gracious smiles. 
It was agreed without a word of cavil, not only 
that all taxes should be taken off, and that a free 
pardon should be granted to the rebels, but that 
Masaniello should maintain his men in arms until 
assent to the agreement could arrive from Spain. 
Finally, with many assurances of his esteem, the 
Viceroy pressed his enemy to accept the rank of 
Duke St. George, at the same time hanging round 
his neck, with his own hands, a chain of massive 
links of gold. Masaniello, having gained his ends, 
professed himself the Duke's most humble servant; 
and in this pleasant comedy the time slipped fast 
away. Presently a roar was heard outside the castle. 
The hour was over; and the people, mindful of their 
pledge, were preparing without more ado, to burst 
33 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

in at the gates with fire and sword in accordance 
with the pledge they had given to Masaniello. 

Masaniello, with the Duke beside him, came out 
into a balcony before the palace. At the sight of 
their leader safe and sound the people broke forth 
into loud and long huzzas. The sight was one 
which might have swelled with pride the heart of 
any king. Masaniello was not loath to show the 
Duke some token of his power. He called for 
cheers; and the vast sea of heads below them 
Toared in succession at the names of the King, of 
the Duke of Arcos, of the Cardinal, and of the 
most Faithful People. When the shouting was at 
the loudest, Masaniello laid his finger on his lips; 
and in an instant there was the silence of the 
grave. Finally, he bade the crowd disperse; and 
forthwith, as if by miracle, the Largo was left 
empty. The Duke could hardly trust his eyes as 
he surveyed the scene. 

The Cardinal had invited Masaniello to reside 
in his own palace; and, in the Cardinal's carriage, 
he drove thither from the castle. Throughout that 
night the bonfires blazed, the guns thundered, and 
the bells pealed merrily in all the steeples. And 
Masaniello's power was at its height. 

At its height, during two days, it remained. His 
men were kept in arms; and he ruled the city like 
a conqueror. It had been arranged that the cere- 
mony which Perrone's plot had broken off should 
be renewed on Saturday, the 15th of July; and on 
that day, amidst a scene of pomp and splendor, the 
Privilege was ratified on oath before the altar of 
the Great Cathedral. 

And now the old monk's oracle was half fulfilled. 
Mrsaniello "had attained to kingly power." Was 
the latter half of the prediction now to come to 
pasS;' — was "his empire to be brief, and his fall 
sudden"? A strange and awful answer was at hand. 
34 



MASANIELLO 

The Duke of Arcos was nursing in his brain a 
scheme of vengeance which, for ingenious and in- 
human villainy, would have been heard with rapture 
by a crew of Dante's fiends. This scheme was now 
mature. That night, after the proceedings in the 
church, he arranged a splendid supper at the castle, 
at which Masaniello and his wife were the chief 
guests. There, either in a glas of wine, or as others 
say, in a ripe fig, Masaniello swallowed a strange 
poison, which had been compounded by the Duke's 
physician, Don Majella. This drug was not in- 
tended to take life; its eff'ect was more terrific; it 
was of the nature of the "insane root, which takes 
the reason prisoner." The victim, when he sat dowa 
to the banquet-table, was a man of great and strik- 
ing powers of mind, pre-eminently cool, wary, 
resolute and sagacious. When he rose up from it 
he was a madman ! 

The effect of this atrocious scheme was soon 
apparent. The supper ended; the guests departed; 
and nothing unusual was observed. But early the 
next morning the people in the streets were startled 
at the spectacle of Masaniello, in a ragged shirt, 
and with a stocking on one leg, running at full 
speed towards the castle. At the entrance, he de- 
manded audience of the Viceroy: the guards, who 
knew him, durst not bar his passage; and he made 
his way into the Duke's presence, crying aloud that 
he was starving. The false and smiling Ponce de 
Leon looked upon his handiwork with glistening 
eyes. Food was brought; but the wretched man 
would now touch nothing. A new whim had seized 
him; they would go, the Duke and he together, 
to Posilippo, and spend the day in pleasure. The 
Duke eluded the proposal on the score of pressing 
business; and Masaniello sailed alone in the Duke's 
gondola. Forty boats of minstrels came behind 
him. Crowds of gazers, lost in wonder, watched 
35 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

his progr.ess from the shore. During the voyage 
he amused himself by flinging handfuls of gold 
coins into the water, and shouted with laughter, 
as the sailors clived to fetch them. At Posilippo, 
he ordered a rich feast to be set out; and it is 
said that before the boat's head turned at evening 
towards Naples, he had drunk twelve bottles of 
wine. Reeling with the efl'ects of wine and poison, 
he was taken to his bed. The next morning he was 
raving. He called for a horse, and with a bare 
sword in his hand, rode furiously about the streets, 
slashing at all who ventured to oppose him. At 
length, he found his way to the sea-shore. At sight 
of the sea he threw himself from the saddle, and 
shrieking out that he was in flames, rushed, dressed 
as he was, into the waves. But all the waters of 
the ocean could not quench the fire that burnt him 
up. As soon as he emerged, he broke into fresh 
freaks of violence. He swore that he would fire 
the city; he hurled himself, sword in hand, upon 
the bystanders. His own friends were forced to 
seize and overpower him, to bind him with a chain, 
and to lead him to his house, where he was placed 
under a guard. 

The plot had been most cunningly contrived. 
There was nothing to excite suspicion; for the 
madness of the victim was easily ascribed to over- 
strain of mind and body, to days of ceaseless vigi- 
lance, and nights without repose. Masaniello might 
now be murdered almost with impunity; not as a 
rebel to the state, but as a dangerous madman. 

Four hired men were ready to put a finish to 
the work of treason. Their names were Michael 
Angelo Aidozzone, Andrea Rama, and Carlos and 
Salvator Cattaneo; the last two, brothers. Early 
on Sunday morning these four men repaired, with 
carbines in their hands, to Masaniello's house. 
They looked in at the door; but, to their surprise, 
36 



MASANIELLO 

the object of their search was nowhere to be seen. 
His guards were asleep; his chain lay on the floor. 
The madman, by whatever means, had gained his 
liberty, and disappeared. 

Several hours were spent in fruitless search. All 
traces of the fugitive had vanished. Nor was it till 
late in the afternoon that he was seen again. 

It was about five o'clock; the service in the 
cathedral was drawing to a close; the Cardinal was 
preaching to a vast assembly; when a ghastly, 
ragged figure, with wild eyes and matted hair, was 
descried upon the steps of the great altar. The 
figure carried in its hand a crucifix, to which, at 
intervals, it muttered and gesticulated. It was 
some time before the ghost was recognized. But 
it was Masaniello. 

The Cardinal went up to the intruder, and, with 
great tact and management, induced him to be led 
away into the adjoining convent. He went calmly; 
for his violent humor had given way to a strange 
apathy, and he was now as docile as a child. He 
had not many minutes left the church when the 
four assassins entered it together. They soon learnt 
what had occurred. Attended by a small band of 
their own party, they followed the track of their 
prey into the convent. 

Masaniello had retired alone into a quiet quarter 
of the cloisters. He was leaning from a window, 
and looking out across the waters of the lovely bay, 
over which the wind of evening was now beginning 
to blow coolly. The sound of footsteps roused him. 
He turned round quickly, with the words, "Who 
wants me? I am here." Before he had time to 
speak again, or to make any movement of defense, 
the four assassins raised their pieces and fired upon 
him in a volley. All four shots took effect. He 
fell back, dying, against the stonework of the win- 
dow, and sank thence to the ground, with the faint 
37 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

cry, "Ah, ungrateful traitors!" Almost before the 
words were spoken, the rattle was in his throat. 
In another moment he was dead. 

Salvator Cattaneo threw himself upon the body, 
and severed the head from the shoulders with a 
knife. A spear was brought, the head was fixed 
upon it, and the band of conspirators, bearing it 
aloft, rushed out into the streets. 

Nothing could illustrate more strikingly the 
tremendous power which the dead man had wielded 
than the sensation which was excited by the tidings 
of his death. The news spread like wildfire through 
the city. His own followers seemed struck with 
stupor; his enemies went wild with fierce delight. 
One band rushed forth into the market-place, and 
took down from their place of infamy Carafa's head 
and foot. Aonther hastened to the convent, sought 
out the headless body of their enemy, and haled it 
by a rope out of the cloisters. The Viceroy left 
the castle and rode to the Cathedral, where doubt- 
less he gave thanks to St. Gennaro for having 
blessed his plot. Soon all the horde of smaller 
tyrants and oppressors began to crawl in swarms 
out of their cellars, caves, and convent cells, to 
feast their eyes upon the sight of the head of the 
terrible fisherman going up and down the city on 
a pole, and to have a kick at his carcase as it was 
dragged along the kennels. At length the head 
was fixed upon a spike above the gateway of the 
Holy Spirit; and the body was hurled into a ditch 
near the Nolana gate. 

Such was the fall of Masaniello. But it was his 
fate to illustrate, beyond example, the mutability of 
human things. And the last scene of the strange 
drama was not yet. 

The great mass of the people still revered the 
name of their deliverer. The savage violence of 
his madness had troubled and estranged them. But 
38 



MASANIELLO 

his death struck them with consternation; and in a 
few hours nothing was recollected but his greatness. 
Night had not come before tens of thousands were 
murmuring his name with blessings, and calling 
upon each other, with tears of shame and rage, to 
remember all they owed to Masaniello. The hearts 
of his enemies, which had been thrilling with de- 
light, began to feel a chill; and soon their bands, 
which had been going up and down so gaily, van- 
ished like mist before the gathering of the multi- 
tude. That night, preparations were set on foot for 
a burial worthy of a people's hero; and before 
morning all was ready. 

The corpse was taken from the ditch into which 
it had been thrown. The head was brought down 
from the pinnacle above the gate, and fastened to 
the shoulders by a thread of silver. The body, 
washed and drenched with perfumes, was laid, 
clothed in a vestment of white linen, upon an open 
bier, and carried to the chapel, where it was placed 
in front of the great altar. A crown was fixed 
upon the head, and a sceptre set in the right hand; 
and thus, in pomp and splendor, as at the burial of 
a king, the corpse of Masaniello lay in state. For 
many hours the crowd continued to stream past the 
spot; a rain of flowers fell ceaselessly upon the 
body; and the tolling of the bell, and the mournful 
music of the organ, were mingled with the constant 
sound of weeping. 

At length, when the sun was sinking, the bier 
was placed upon a lofty car, and drawn by coal- 
black horses through the streets. Five days before, 
along that very road, the hero of the hour had 
passed in triumph, amid the blaze of banners and 
the shouting of the crowd. Now, black hangings 
drooped from every window; faces dark with sor- 
row crowded both sides of the way. Before the 
hearse a thousand priests, in stoles of white, walked 
39 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

with censers in their hands and crosses lifted; be- 
hind it, muffled drums and trumpets played a 
solemn march. Then came a company of men-at- 
arms, with spears reversed and colors drooping; and 
then thousands, and tens of thousands, of the 
people. 

The solemn pageant wound its way through all 
the quarters of the city. At length it turned again 
towards the church. The organ broke forth into 
the last majestic service of the dead. A stone was 
lifted in the marble pavement; and there, with 
more than royal splendor, amidst the blaze of 
torches and the strains of solemn music, the dark 
house closed for ever above the dust of Masaniello. 






40 



MYLES STANDISH 

TO the younger reader, the name of Myles 
Standish is associated with the romance of 
his courtship, by proxy, of Priscilla, "the beautiful 
Puritan maiden," rather than with the deeds of 
daring that made him famous among the Pilgrims. 
We have to thank Longfellow for this change of 
perspective, that has given one incident of his life 
a prominence that eclipses all his battles and dan- 
gers. It is scarcely fair to the brave warrior, that 
we should picture him first and chiefly as the dis- 
comfited lover, forgetting on how many fields and 
in how many crises he won his title to the world's 
admiration. 

If he had not been so distinguished, if his manly 
courage and valorous deeds had not been so con- 
spicuous, it would never have occurred to him that 
he could win the loveliest girl in the colony. It 
was the glorious record behind him, the halo about 
the brows of "the great Captain of Plymouth," that 
were the charms which were to cause the gentle 
young girl to forget disparity of age and brusque- 
ness of manner, and to accept with gratitude the 
position to which he could raise her. This humble 
girl, so pretty and so graceful, would no more 
dream of rejecting the famous captain, than of 
cutting off one of her dainty hands. Standish, 
according to the Longfellow legend, had assumed 
her consent as a thing assured. He had only to 
throw his royal handkerchief, and the humble 
maiden would pick it up and say, "be it unto me 
according to thy will," congratulating herself on 
4.1 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

the happy chance that had attracted the man of 
eminence and influence in her little world. Of 
course, there were formalities and pretty phrases 
that the girl would naturally consider were due 
from a lover. Marriage is a very important thing 
for a woman. They make more of the small com- 
pliments and personal pledges that are the lover's 
duty, than a busy man, who has the stern and 
weighty affairs of the colony on his shoulders, can 
afford to think of. But Alden knows what should 
be said on such occasions, and how it should be 
said. He will attend to those small matters, as a 
stately and dignified suitor leaves the matter of 
the settlements for his lawyer to arrange. It is a 
small matter beneath his consideration. So he will 
commission Alden to express the proper sentiments, 
and get that part of the thing done with. The 
Captain is quite satisfied that this is his wisest 
course, and proceeds to attend to public matters, 
on which the security of the whole colony depends. 

Strange, that men of sense and experience so 
seldom understand a woman's nature. Women 
themselves are in part in fault. They vary so much, 
their minds and impulses differ so much, in women 
that look so much alike. If they would but always 
look at a matter in the same way, if one could 
learn from the attitude of one woman what wovdd 
be the attitude of the remainder of her sex, how 
many mistakes would be avoided ! Why do they 
differ? Why do some women perceive that some 
<*ourse will advance their own interests, and pursue 
it with common sense, while another woman cares 
nothing for her own interests, and refuses to marry 
a man if she does not like him, no matter how 
wealthy or distinguished he may be. And she has 
no reasons worthy of the name to give for her 
decision. She does not like him, and that is reason 
enough for her. So Priscilla declines Standishs 
49 



MYLES STANDISH 

offer, and, with sweet, womanly charm, invites an 
offer from Alden, who is not half so important a 
figure in the world. Mysterious is the woman's way, 
and though men have been wooing and marrying for 
six thousand years, she is still a mystery. So the 
valiant Captain, brave, sagacious and influential, is 
humiliated, and goes down to history in the char- 
acter of a discomfited lover. 

The story is characteristic of the characters con-r 
cerned. We can well imagine Standish and Pris- 
cilla and Alden, in such circumstances, acting as 
they are represented to have acted; but there are 
good reasons for doubting the facts, and better 
reasons for relegating the whole story to the realm 
of myth and legend. When Standish lost his wife. 
Rose, his thoughts turned to Rose's sister, who was 
in the old country. That he should have sent her 
the news of his wife'e death, and that she should 
have arrived within three years of that event, to 
marry him, leaves not enough room for the captain's 
passion for Priscilla and his unsuccesful, indirect 
M'ooing of her. For that reason, and for certain 
anachronisms in the story, we may justly hold 
Longfellow guilty of something more than poetic 
license, while we treasure his gem and thank him 
for the sweet conceit. 

How delightful it would be for us if, in the early 
part of the seventeenth century, there had been in 
some simple home in Ley den, and afterwards in one 
of the cabins of Plymouth, a sociable, gossiping, 
letter-writing, diary-keeping man or woman who 
had given us a picture of those old Puritan men 
and times. We would like to know something more 
of them than is revealed in the dry, methodical 
records of Bradford, Winslow, and their friends. 
Silent, modest, reserved men they were, who would 
not boast of their heroism. They leave us to fill 
up the outline of their lives, and to infer from the 
43 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

record of facts the wonderfiu fortitude and en- 
durance and courage that must have characterized 
them. It is only by incidental references that we 
get any idea of the appearance of the men and 
women of the little colony, and gain occasional 
glimpses into their homes. That they could be stern 
and inflexible in great crises, we know, but there 
must have been times when they unbent, and 
when there was a sober laugh over some ludicrous 
incident. Especially among the younger members 
of the community there must have been social 
gatherings, at which the "jesting M'hich is not con- 
venient" must have been carried on, in spite of the 
inconvenience. Not even the trials and anxieties of 
the colony could have entirely repressed the natural 
humor and merriment of the young folks. Gone 
now are their quips and jokes, their social pleas- 
ures, and nothing is left of the story but the grave, 
sombre record that probably gives us but an inad- 
equate notion of their character. 

Of Standish himself, we have the record left by 
one of the enemies with whom he measured himself 
in the grim tug of life and death, that he was a 
man of small stature, and that he had red hair. 
That he was strongly knit, robust of frame, and of 
great muscular strength, is evident from his deeds. 
When he landed at Plymouth, he was thirty-six 
years of age, a man in the prime of life, active 
and vigorous, prompt in action, and of dauntless 
courage; not the kind of man to be easily pro- 
voked, but not safe to meet when his spirit was 
aroused, or if he suspected treachery. 

AVhy he M^as among the Pilgrims has never been 
clearly explained. He identified himself with them, 
and served them faithfully for thirty-six years; but 
he seems to have had little sympathy with the 
theology that was the centre and essence of their 
lives, and he evidently took no part in the regula- 
44 



MYLES STANDISH 

tion of church affairs. John Robinson, the pious 
and learned minister who Ivuew them all, and had 
ministered to them in England and Holland, wrote 
to Bradford, when he heard that his people in the 
colony had found it necessary to kill some of the 
Indians, a word of kindly admonition and implied 
warning of Standish. He wished they had been able 
to convert some of the Indians before they killed 
any, and expressed the fear that the Captain had 
been led somewhat by a love of military glory, or 
a thirst for slaughter. Perhaps the good pastor 
had not found Standish, when he knew him in Hol- 
land, very attentive to his sermons, or very pro- 
nounced in his beliefs; and so was disposed, when 
he heard of the killing, to attribute it to the man 
of war among his little flock. The Pilgrims seem 
to have made the acquaintance of Standish in 
Holland, but there is no account of the circum- 
stances that drew them together. 

The business that took Standish to Holland was 
the war of the Dutch against Spain. He had reached 
the rank of lieutenant, when he was sent among 
the English troops to aid the Dutch in their strug- 
gle. That is all that we know of his military 
position in Europe. He had been commissioned by 
Queen Elizabeth, who is described in the dedica- 
tion in our old Bibles as "that bright Occidental 
Star of most happy memory." We do not know 
even the date of his commission, but as he was not 
twenty years old when Elizabeth died, it must have 
been between 1600 and 1603 that he entered the 
English army. He remained in Holland until 
August, 1630, when he sailed with the Pilgrims for 
America. 

The family to which Standish belonged was an 
ancient one. It is known that they were in Lan- 
cashire, England, soon after the Norman Conquest 
in 1066, and that they were then noted for their 
45 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

military exploits. The head of the family received 
knighthood in 1381 for service against Wat Tyler. 
The Standishes distinguished themselves in the war 
against France, at Agincourt, and in later wars, 
and others of them were knighted. They continued 
prominent in the army and in the learned profes- 
sions until the reign of Henry VIII, when the 
family, like many others of that day, split into 
two branches, the one adopting the principles of the 
Reformation, and the other continuing in the 
Roman Catholic Church. The Protestant branch 
was known as the Standishes of Duxbury Hall, and 
it is believed that Myles Standish belonged to this 
part of the family, though in his will he describes 
himself as of the house of Standish of Standish, 
which was the title of the Roman Catholic branch, 
It may be, however, that he was referring to the 
family before the separation, as the particular an- 
cestor that he mentions is his great grandfather. 
The fact that when he built his house in this 
country, he named it Duxbury, confirms the belief 
that he belonged to the Duxbury Standishes. He 
was born in the Parish of Chorley, which lies be- 
tween Standish Hall and Duxbury Hall. The date 
of his birth is believed to have been 1584. 

Of Standish's exploits in the Spanish-Dutch War, 
there is no record. It was war of a peculiarly 
fierce, unrelenting type, conducted with such sav- 
agery, as must have prepared the Captain for his 
experiences with the Indians. The Spaniards hated 
the Dutch, and the Dutch abhorred the Spaniards, with 
a personal malignity seldom seen in civilized war- 
fare. Not only in battle, but in separate encounters, 
one combatant, if not both, must surely die. There 
was no surrender, no prisoners taken, nothing but 
death contented the foes. The soldier, clad in his 
cumbrous armor, with heavy helmet, breastplate and 
thigh-coverings over his leather leggings and jacket, 
46 



MYLES STANDISH 

was equipped not only with his sword, but with the 
clumsy firearms of the period, the harquebus which 
was fired by a match, and the snaphance with the 
flint-lock. 

How early in the discussion of the projected 
settlement in New England Standish was taken 
into counsel, cannot now be learned. He appears 
to have been a silent man, as brave soldiers are apt 
to be, a man who, like our own U. S. Grant, could 
speak to the point, but used few words. Still, we 
can imagine his being an interested member of the 
council, as he was going to put his life into the 
venture. High principle was the moving force with 
the Pilgrims; they were expatriating themselves on 
religious grounds, and put their trust in the God 
whom they served. Standish never gave evidence 
of such implicit faith, and it is doubtful if he 
agreed with the Pilgrims on their most vital tenets. 
That he was a studious man there can be little 
doubt. He was certainly the most accomplished 
linguist in Plymouth Colony. In all probability he 
devoted some of the leisure he would have, while 
performing garrison duty in Leyden, to studying 
in the library of the University. There he would 
come in contact with John Robinson, the pastor of 
the little Pilgrim church, and the two Englishmen 
in the Dutch city would be likely to become ac- 
quainted. One of the biographers of Standish 
states it as a fact, but, so far as we have been able 
to find, without authority. He says that a cordial 
friendship arose between the two men, and that 
Robinson introduced Standish to Brewster, Brad- 
ford, and several others, and eventually he began 
to attend the meetings of the council. 

The guiding hand of Providence in the selection 
of a site for their colony would, therefore, be a 
prominent topic of their meetings, while with Stan- 
dish considerations of a mundane character would 
47 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

be more weighty. It was probably due to his advice 
that the first proposal of settling in Guiana was 
abandoned. The mild climate and fertile soil cele- 
brated by Raleigh were attractions, but it was too 
near the Spanish dominions, and Standish under- 
stood by experience the danger of such propinquity. 
Finally, it was decided to secure, if possible, a site 
near Delaware Bay, which was reported to be a 
congenial climate, free from the severe cold of the 
Maine coast, which had already proved disastrous 
to one party of English settlers. 

The Dutch offered them a site near Manhattan 
Island, and the Virginia Company were willing to 
give them a grant in their southern possessions, 
which included the Carolinas and Delaware. The 
company also held the coast north of the Dutch 
settlement as far north as the region now known 
as Eastport, Maine. The Pilgrims, in spite of the 
Dutch hospitality which they had so long enjoyed, 
desired to settle under the English flag, and ac- 
cordingly the Virginia proposal was accepted. A 
joint stock company was organized to raise the 
$35,000 required, and a small vessel — the Speedicell 
— was purchased, in which the Pilgrims set sail for 
Southampton, where the Mayfloiver, a larger ves- 
sel, which they had hired, was already being loaded 
for the voyage. 

"They had naturally made numerous inquries 
about the land in the far West," says the author 
previously quoted, and had heard of the adventures 
of Sir Walter Raleigh and others. "They found 
that the chief peril to colonists would arise from 
the hordes of savage Indians, who roamed over 
vast territories, and would not scruple to attack 
white men, scalp them, burn them, or otherwise 
make short work with the intruders. What was to 
be done by way of safeguard against these savages? 
The little company of Separatists were not fighting 
48 



MYLES STAN DISH 

men. They were not skilled in the use of arms, and 
would be in a quandary if they had to plan methods 
of attack or defence, and very soon be at the 
Indians' mercy." Considerations of this kind doubt- 
less led to Standish being invited to cast in his lot 
with the Pilgrims. 

At last, then, behold the two vessels sailing on 
August 15, 16:20, out of Southampton harbor. The 
little Speedivell, with thirty of the pilgrims on 
board, and the Mayflower with ninety. But their 
trials in that hemisphere were not yet ended. It 
seemed as if Providence designed to sift them as 
Gideon's army was sifted. The SpeedireH's captain 
discovered, while still in the English Channel, that 
his vessel was leaking, and put into Dartmouth 
harbor for repairs. The leak seems to have existed 
in the captain's imagination only, for, on examina- 
tion, the little vessel was found to be in good 
condition. A new start was made, but when 
Land's End was sighted, the captain declared his 
ship unfit for the voyage. By this time the Pil- 
grims shrewdly suspected that it was the captain 
himself who was unfit for the voyage, and again the 
vessels turned eastward. No cowards or feeble- 
minded men were wanted on such an expedition. 
There was no time to get another captain and crew, 
for the season was every day becoming more dan- 
gerous. It was decided to dispense with the Speed- 
well, which must have been a welcome relief to the 
poor captain s mind, and proceed in the Mayfoiver 
alone. It could not accommodate the whole burden 
of thirty passengers, so there was a further oppor- 
tunity for any who had misgivings to with raw. 
Eighteen passengers were left at Plymouth, where 
the two ships had put in. What proportion of these 
were voluntary withdrawals, we are not told; but 
voluntary or involuntary, the separation had to be 
made. The other twelve went on board the already 
49 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

crowded Mayffower, and for the third time course 
was bent eastward. The day is memorable, Septem- 
ber lO", (N. S.) 16:20. Who can think of that little 
vessel, with its hundred and two single-hearted pas- 
sengers, setting out for its unknown destination, 
without wonder and admiration? What destinies, 
what momentous results, were involved in that 
voyage ! 

The little company, thrice winnowed, must have 
appeared to the world poor material for a colony. 
In other settlements men had come alone, but in 
this band there were women and children. Even 
among the men there were aged men, and among 
the women there were some who expected to become 
mothers before the voyage was ended. It was, in 
truth, a feeble company fo? so hazardous an enter- 
prise, involving of a certainty many hardships and 
probably many dangers. Like the glorious company 
celebrated in Holy Writ, "They desired a better 
country, that is a heavenly, wherefore God was not 
ashamed to be called their God: for he had pre- 
pared for them a city." 

Sixty-three long days and nights the little vessel, 
with its intrepid passengers, battled with the winds 
and waves of the Atlantic. Huddled in the com- 
fortless deck-houses, or cooped up below, with only 
one fire, and that used for cooking, the voyagers 
must have suffered severely. Bradford refers to 
the winds by which "the ship was shrewdly shaken." 
Then he speaks of the grievous sea-sickness, and of 
the miseries that the sick had to bear. At one 
time it was feared that the deck would give way, 
but providentially there was "a great iron screw" on 
board, with which the beams were raised, and a 
wooden post inserted to serve as a pillar. Even the 
sailors derided the miserable, suffering, sick women 
as they lay on deck. One in particular Bradford 
mentions, who taunted them, and made the cheerful 
50 



MYLES STANDISH 

prediction that he "expected to throw half of them 
overboard before the end of the voyage." Brad- 
ford noted the inhuman sailor, and records that "It 
pleased God to smite this young man with a griev- 
ous disease, whereof he died, and so was the first 
to be thrown overboard." He did not exult over 
the young man's fate, but was evidently inclined 
to believe that Providence had something to do 
with his sudden end. Myles Standish is not men- 
tioned in Bradford's brief story of the voyage — the 
only one that has survived — but we may imagine 
that the brave soldier, inured to privation, bore the 
journey well, and perhaps aided in cheering and 
encouraging the others. 

All things have an end, and the hardships and 
afflictions of this voyage were no exception. On 
the morning of November 30, 1630, the eyes of the 
Pilgrims were gladdened by the sight of land. The 
captain announced that the land was Cape Cod, far 
north of the region to which they were bound, and 
far away from the place asigned to them in their 
charter. But it was land, and to the weary, sea-sick 
voyagers it was a welcome sight. They fell on 
their knees on the deck and gave thanks. A con- 
sultation was held, and the captain was urged to 
proceed southward toward the land covered by the 
charter. But whether he had been bribed by the 
Dutch to carry the Pilgrims away from the Hud- 
son, or was really unable at that season, and with 
his heavily-laden ship, to make the voyage, he be- 
came entangled in "dangerous shoals and roaring 
breakers." It was a safe bay, so he returned within 
its welcoming arms and cast anchor. 

A conference was held in the cabin of the ship to 
discuss the untoward situation. The difficulty, that 
their charter gave them no protection if they settled 
on the adjacent land, could not be ignored, but it 
would not be worth much if they were at the Hud- 
51 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

son or at Delaware Bay. It was not a choice be- 
tween advantages, nor of avoidance of dangers, but 
of accepting the inevitable. The captain of the 
Mayfloiver would not adventure farther south, and 
was eager to return, lest his provision for the 
voyage should be exhausted. There was no re- 
source but to settle on the land to which Providence 
had led them. That point being agreed upon, an 
agreement was drawn up for their government, 
pledging each one to obedience to laws enacted by 
the majority, and declaring themselves loyal sub- 
jects of King James. This instrument, the initial 
preparation for free and constitutional self-govern- 
ment, was signed by forty-one of the sixty-five male 
members of the company; the other twenty-four 
being minors, servants, or sick persons. 

Reading down the names of the signers, we find, 
sixth on the list, the sturdy signature of Myles 
Standish, of whom nothing had been said m the his- 
tory of the voyage. Henceforward he was to make 
a prominent figure in the colony, a man to be con- 
sulted in difficulties, and to be relied upon for 
prompt action. 

The first necessity was that a party should go on 
shore and survey the coast. Fifteen men, well-armed, 
with Standish as leader, accordingly waded out in the 
shallow water, about three-quarters of a mile, and 
on Saturday, November 21, (N. S.) 1620, set foot 
on the New England shore. It needed some courage 
to venture; for tales of the treachery and cruelty 
of the Indians had been told them before sailing. 
But Standish was not a man to shrink from danger, 
and he and his followers marched boldly into the 
unknown land. They were gone all day, and saw 
no human being, and no evidence of occupation but 
the significant one of a grave. They reported the 
land much like that of Holland, but far better, as 
good rich earth lay at no great depth. The com- 
52 



MYLES STANDISH 

pany longed to get on shore, and on Monday the 
small sailboat, or shallop, was brought out. But 
it was strained and "opened through the people's 
lying in her." The journal of the voyage had not 
told us of their hard bed in the shallop, but it is 
through such hints that we learn of their hardships. 
The carpenter was therefore set to work to repair 
the boat, and the coming of the people on shore was 
delayed. 

Captain Standish, with his company of armed 
men, however, began another exploration, wading 
out as before. They had proceeded about a mile, 
when they saw six persons and a dog, who ran into 
the woods and were lost to view. The Pilgrim 
company continued their march until sunset, and 
then built a kind of fort or camp, and lay down 
to sleep, leaving three sentinels to watch. There 
was no alarm during the night, and at daybreak 
the march was resumed. They passed through a 
dense forest, the undergrowth of which tore their 
i clothes, and caused no little fatigue. To their de- 
I light they found a spring of fresh water, at which 
i they "drank with as much delight as we ever drank 
1 drink in our lives." Many wild fowl and deer were 
seen, and they found quantities of sassafras, which 
was an encouragement to them, as it could be sent 
to England and sold for medical purposes. They 
also found a grave-like mound, in which was a big 
round basket filled with corn. This they took, 
pledging themselves to pay for it at the first oppor- 
tunity. At night, they slept imder guard as before, 
and on the morrow made for the coast, and thence 
on board the ship. 

The shallop was now ready, and Standish, with 
ten men, went on shore to make wider exploration. 
On that day they saw ten or twelve Indians, but 
came not nearer to them. But on the next day, as 
they were at breakfast, they were startled by a 
53 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

flight of arrows. Standish fired his snaphance, but 
forbade the others shooting until they could aim. 
The arrows continued flying, but the Indians were 
behind trees, and none of the Pilgrims were hurt. 
Finally, the fire-arms were discharged, and the 
Indians fled. Returning to the shallop the search 
for a harbor was resumed. All day Saturday and 
Sunday was spent on Clark's Island, in Duxbury 
Bay, and on Monday, December 21, (N. S.) they 
landed on Plymouth Rock. Having sounded the 
harbor, and "found it fit for shipping," the site 
for the colony was virtually chosen, and the explor- 
ers returned to the Mat/fJower. Four days later, 
the Mayffower weighed anchor and made for Ply- 
mouth Harbor. "It rained and blew exceedingly," 
and none were able to go ashore, but on Monday, 
December :28, the men landed, and the choice of 
Standish and his party was ratified. 

No time was lost in cutting timber for building. 
A fort was planned on the hill afterwards known 
as Burial Hill, plots were laid out for each family, 
and the general plan of the settlement arranged. 
Axes and other tools had been brought from Eng- 
land, but handles had been omitted to save space, 
and this deficiency had been the first remedied. 
Work went on apace, so that there should be shelter 
for the women and children when they could be 
brought ashore. The first building was a big Com- 
mon House, twenty feet square. It was covered by 
a thatch, which caught fire, to the danger of the 
inmates, but was speedily replaced. When this was 
completed, the women and children, who had been 
cooped up on shipboard since leaving Holland in 
July, nmch to the detriment of their health, were 
brought ashore. The first to set foot on Plymouth 
Rock was Mary Chilton, Their first act, it being 
Sunday, was to proceed to the Common House, 
where divine service was held. This was on Jan- 
54- 



MYLES STANDISH 

uary 31, by our reckoning, but the Pilgrims, who 
used the old style, recorded the landing as on 
January 21, 1621. 

As smoke had been seen at some distance, there 
was a presumption that Indians were in the vicinity, 
and Standish went in the direction in which it had 
been seen, to try to get into communication with 
them. He found several huts, in shape like a bee- 
hive, but they were empty. During the work of 
building, there were several times alarms of In- 
dians, and Standish, on more than one occasion, 
summoned his men, who put on their armor. But 
the Indians always retreated before they could be 
even spoken with. They were evidently in the 
woods near at hand, for, if axes or tools were left 
in the woods over night, they disappeared before 
morning. A formal meeting was held to consider 
this danger on Feburary 27, when Standish was 
chosen captain. Small cannon were also brought 
from the Mayfloiver, and planted on the hill. 

Meanwhile, death had been busy in the camp. The 
poor fare on shipboard had diminished the vitality 
of the Pilgrims, and exposure in the rigorous cli- 
mate, in the depth of winter, had done its fatal 
work. Before the end of the winter, twenty-one 
of the forty-one men who had signed the agreement, 
had died, and of the whole company of one hundred 
and two who had set sail in the Mayflower, only 
fifty-one survived. Of these, thirty-two were men, 
five were boys, twelve women, and two girls. Among 
the deaths was that of Rose, wife of Myles Stan- 
dish. Bradford also lost his wife. At one time, 
says the historian, there were only seven men 
capable of work, and these tended the sick, washed 
the clothing and made themselves men of all work 
in the settlement. Of these, Standish was one. It 
is curious to think of this grim captain, with the 
sedate oflBcers of the colony, standing washing at 
55 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

the tubs and doing the house-work. Noble men 
they were, who could thus lay aside their dignity 
for the common good. 

Fear of the Indians still oppressed the little 
colony. They dreaded lest the news of their dimin- 
ished numbers should encourage the Indians to 
attack them. Lest the Indians should learn how 
numerous the losses were, the graves on Burial 
Hill were ploughed over, and the identity of those 
hallowed resting-places was lost for ever. It was 
necessary to form some plans for defence, in view 
of the paucity of the men, and a meeting was called 
for the purpose. What was their surprise when 
an Indian, clad only in his belt, walked through the 
settlement and entered the meeting! His first 
word was "Welcome;" he had picked up a little 
English from fishermen, who had come to fish, a year 
before, on the Maine coast, and was proud of his 
accomplishment. He introduced himself as Sam- 
oset, and told them he was a Sagamore. Standish 
told him of the missing tools and gave him a mes- 
sage demanding their return. They gave him some 
presents, and he departed, promising to return 
with other Indians. 

From Samoset the Pilgrims learned how wisely 
Providence had directed their steps to this partic- 
ular region. He told them that the land had 
formerly been in possession of warike tribes, but 
they had been almost exterminated by a deadly 
plague which had utterly depopulated the country 
for miles around. Thus, the Pilgrims recognized a 
fresh proof of God's favor in bringing them, in 
spite of their own plans, to a region unclaimed by 
any race, where there was none to dispute posses- 
sion with them. 

A few days later Samoset returned, bringing the 
stolen tools, and with him four other Indians, one 
of whom, named Tisquantum, became a most val- 
56 



MYLES STANDTSH 

uable friend of the settlers. This man, who was 
dubbed Squanto, had formerly been stolen and 
sold into slavery. He had been taken to England, 
where he had lived for several years. Here he had 
made friends with an English captain, and ulti- 
mately had sailed in his ship for his native land, 
Squanto could speak English fluently, and was able 
to render inestimable service to the colony as an 
interpreter. His skill was soon brought into requi- 
sition, for the approach of Massasoit, the most 
powerful Indian chief of that region, was an- 
nounced. Massasoit was attended by about sixty 
warriors, hideously painted and fully armed. With 
Squanto's assistance, he was informed that the 
white men were friendly, and desired to make a 
treaty of peace with him. He was conducted to the 
settlement, and Captain Standish, clad in his best 
armor, at the head of his little band, escorted him 
into the presence of Governor Carver. A friendly 
conversation ensued, Squanto translating the Gov- 
ernor's formal speeches and Massasoit's replies. A 
treaty of peace was then drawn up, whereby the 
settlers and Massasoit's tribe pledged themseh^es to 
friendly intercourse and mutual alliance in any just 
war. 

This treaty with Massasoit was evidently no mere 
form in the eyes of the Pilgrims. They were not 
the kind of men to think lightly of their obligations, 
and they had unquestionably incurred serious obli- 
gations in pledging themselves to assist an Indian 
chief, of whom they know little or nothing, in his 
quarrels. They qualified their pledge by insisting 
that it must be a "just" war that should give him 
the right to call upon them; but there has never 
been a war yet that was not just, in the opinion of 
those who engaged in it. Massasoit was evidently 
pleased with his new friends, and with promises of 
help and good-will, he and his sixty braves departed. 
57 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

The treaty, however, led to no relaxation of vig- 
ilance or of discipline. The duties and rights of 
Standish were not very clearly defined, but he 
clearly held a position of authority. An incident 
occurred shortly after the Indian's visit, which 
proved this. Standish gave some order to one 
John Billington, who refused to obey. His offence 
was aggravated by the terms of his refusal, for he 
roundly abused and denounced the sturdy little 
captain. Whereupon Standish had him arrainged 
before the whole company, and he was condemned 
to be "tied together neck and heels, and to lie thus 
in a public place." The sentence, however, was not 
executed, for the man, showing sincere contrition, 
and it being the first offence, he was pardoned, not 
without a warning. 

In August, 1621, Captain Standish entered on his 
first expedition as military chief of the colony. 
Rumors reached the Pilgrims that Massasoit had 
become unpopular with certain chiefs of his tribe 
by his treaty with the white men. The leader of the 
disaffection was said to be a chief named Corbitant. 
Squanto and another friendly Indian were sent to 
find out the facts. Corbitant seized both men, but 
the friendly Indian escaped and reported that 
Squanto was in captivity and threatened with 
death. Instantly, Standish was commissioned to 
march with his army, consisting of the only ten 
men available, to rescue Sqaunto. Starting before 
dawn, the feeble force with the gallant little captain 
at the head reached the Indian village before night- 
fall, and promptly surrounded the hut in which 
Squanto was believed to be confined. With excel- 
lent generalship, Standish assigned men to their 
proper stations outside the house, and then boldly 
entered the hut and demanded to see Corbitant. 
Two men outside discharged their guns, at which 
the Indians were taken with sudden fear, and made 
58 



MYLES STAN DISH 

a rush to escape, but were driven back by the 
guards. It appeared that Corbitant was not there, 
but Squanto was handed over unharmed. The In- 
dians were compelled to lay down their bows and 
arrows and depart, while Standish and his men 
searched the hut. The house was held all night, 
and in the morning Standish went to the middle of 
the village, and through Squanto made a speech, 
warning the Indians that if Massasoit was attacked, 
the white men would inflict punishment on his as- 
sailants. Standish also expressed regret that, in the 
recent struggle in the hut, any Indian should have 
been hurt, and offering the wounded the service of 
the white men's physician. A man and woman 
accepted the offer, and returned M'ith Squanto and 
the others to the colony, where their hurts were 
dressed. The boldness of the white men and their 
championship of Massasoit, had an excellent effect 
on the Indians, some of whom came from a distance 
to offer friendship. 

Later in the year, the force of the colonists was 
increased by the arrival of about thirty settlers, 
who came over in the Fortune, a vessel chartered by 
the merchants who had advanced money for the 
founding of the colony. The vessel came to collect 
profits, and was sent back with a cargo of beaver 
skins, sassafras, and such other things as the Pil- 
grims had obtained. The thirty new immigrants 
were not all of the best type, and a still more 
! serious matter was that they had brought no pro- 
! visions. Thus, thirty mouths were added to the 
I company, which was already running short of food. 
j The advantage of an accession of strength was, 
I however, soon demonstrated. A new and dire peril 
suddenly developed. The Narragansetts, the most 
I powerful of the Indian tribes, conceived an enmity 
to the new colony. The first intimation of the en- 
mity came without preparation. An Indian arrived at 
59 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

the settlement and asked for Squanto. He was 
absent on some mission, so the Indian laid down a 
package which was to be delivered to him on his 
return. It consisted of a bundle of arrows wrapped 
in the skin of a rattlesnake. There was no need to 
wait for Squanto's return to explain the meaning 
of such a missive. Standish promptly accepted the 
challenge, by sending, as a reply, the skin of the 
rattlesnake stuifed with powder and ball. The In- 
dians were alarmed at the answer, and it was sent 
from village to village, but none would receive it, 
and it was at last sent back to Plymouth. But 
there was no sign that the Indians had abandoned 
their hostile intentions,- and the Pilgrims grimly 
prepared themselves for battle. Decisive measures 
were needed, and they were taken. A stockade was 
built of the trunks of trees around the settlement. 
It was flanked with bastions, and had gates to shut 
and lock. Rising above this stockade was the sum- 
mit of the hill, on which the little cannon were 
placed. The genius of Standish, who had studied 
the fortifications at Ostend, showed itself in this 
rude protection. His administrative ability was 
displayed in the military organization of his little 
force. Bradford thus records the arrangements 
made in his record: "And ye Company was by ye 
Captaine devided into four squadrons, and every 
one had their quarter apoynted them, unto which 
they were to repaire upon any suddane alarme. 
And if there should be any crie of Fire, a company 
were apoynted for a gard, with muskets, while 
others quenchet the same, to prevent Indean treach- 
ery. This was accomplished very cheerfully, and 
ye towne impayled round be ye beginning of 
March." 

About five weeks were occupied in this work. A 
further precaution of the Captain's, showing what 
a shrewd commander he was, consisted in his order 
60 



MYLES STANDISH 

for the Sunday services. It was likely that the 
Indians, knowing the Plymouth custom of assem- 
bling for worship on the Lord's Day, might choose 
that day for attacking the little colony. Standish, 
therefore, ordered his little army to assemble, fully 
armed, on Sunday morning at his house, and thence 
march in a body to meeting, carrying their muskets 
with them. The Captain took his place on the left 
of the preacher, where he could see the door, pre- 
pared at any moment to stop the service, marshall 
his men, and proceed to meet the foe. 

No attack being made, Standish, pursuing his 
customary policy, determined to ascertain for him- 
self the temper of the Indians, and accordingly 
made a visit to the tribes most suspected. It was 
learned afterwards that the brave man had incurred 
no slight peril of assassination on this trip. An 
Indian chief named Wituwamet, and another named 
Pecksuot, had plotted to murder him, and had sworn 
an oath that he should never return to the settle- 
ment alive. They accompanied him on hj's return 
journey, watching for an opportunity to slay him 
when he was off his guard. But, providentially, 
Standish was either suspicious of them or was 
wakeful from the cold. He was unable to sleep, 
and sat up all night, with his weapons in his belt 
and his eyes on the conspirators. Finally, he 
reached Plymouth in safety. 

The colony was in a state of excitement. During 
his absence news came that Massasoit, the ally of 
the colony was dangerovisly ill. Winslow and an- 
other set out to visit him. They found him sur- 
rounded by the Indian doctors, with charms and 
incantations, making a hideous noise, according to 
their custom in cases of sickness. Winslow took 
charge of the case, administered some simple rem- 
edies, and had the gratification of seeing their friend 
and ally recover. His gratitude knew no bounds, 
61 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

and he gave immediate proof of it. He revealed all 
the details of the plot against the Colonists, led by 
Wituwamet and Pecksuot, in which he had been 
asked to join. He had given an indecisive answer, 
but since the Englishmen had saved his life, he 
would not hold his peace. 

The party returned to the settlement, and re- 
ported Massasoit's tidings to the Governor. Stan- 
dish had by that time returned, and a council was 
immediately called. The emergency was the worst 
the colony had yet encountered, and the peril was 
dire. Standish took the matter into his own hands 
and decided not to wait for the Indians to attack 
at their leisure, but to strike the first blow. Taking 
only eight men with him, he set out for the camp 
in which the two Indian conspirators would prob- 
ably be found. Hobomok, a friendly Indian, ac- 
companied as interpreter, Squanto being dead by 
this time. Never was there a more striking evidence 
of Standish's courage. His foes were numbered 
by thousands, and were crafty and cruel. Yet 
he was going into their camp with only eight com- 
panions. A more intrepid thing was never recorded 
in the annals of war. 

On their way they halted at a village, under the 
pretence of trading, but really to find out all they 
could of the conspiracy. They found the Indians 
surly and suspicious. They therefore made ail haste 
to their destination. On their arrival, there was no 
mistaking the temper of the Indians. Wituwamet 
openly exhibited his knife, which had a woman's 
face on the handle. He said he had in his tent an- 
other with a man's face on it. "By and bye, these 
two would marry," he said, "and they would eat and 
not speak." Pecksuot was still more insulting, stand- 
ing before Standish. and, towering head and shovdders 
above the little captain, he said, "You may be a great 
captain, but you are a very little man. Though I 
63 



MYLES STANDISH 

am not a sachem, I am a man of great strength 
and courage." Standish bore the insults cahnly, 
and invited the two men to come into the tent and 
talk the matter over. They complied, taking with 
them Wituwamet's brother and another fierce war- 
rior. Standish took four of his men, leaving the 
other four outside to prevent a surprise. 

The discussion led to nothing, Pecksuot still 
boasting and insulting Standish. At last, the sturdy 
captain lost patience, and bade Pecksuot cease his 
bragging and come outside and fight it out man to 
man. Instantly both men rose in anger. Standish 
leaped on his stalwart foe, and snatching the knife 
from his hand, stabbed him to the heart. The other 
colonists at the same time attacked Wituwamet, 
and killed him and the other warrior. Wituwa- 
met's brother was seized and rushed to the door, 
where he was promptly hanged in the face of the 
whole tribe. The Indians fled in consternation. 
Though they followed Standish and his party on 
their way back, they kept under cover of the forest, 
and their arrows did no harm. 

The Captain's return, bearing the heads of the 
two enemies, was greeted with thankfulness. The 
ghastly trophies were fixed on the fort as a terror 
to other hostile Indians. The tidings of the exploit 
flew from tribe to tribe, and the hostiles forsook 
the region or came humbly desiring peace. By the 
one valorous act, Standish had averted a long and 
tedious war, and had saved the colony from extermi- 
nation. The news, however, was not welcome to the 
friends of the Pilgrims in Holland, who, living in 
peace there, could not understand the desperate 
plight of the little company surrounded by Indians. 
Pastor Robinson wrote, deploring that any Indians 
should have been killed before some had been con- 
verted, and warning the colony against placing too 
much reliance on the prowess and warlike spirit of 
63 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

their Captain. The colonists, however, had more 
confidence than ever in him, and realized how great 
had been the service he had rendered them. 

On his return, Standish was gratified at finding 
the good ship Anne had arrived from Ley den, 
bringing a hundred new colonists, and among them 
the lady Barbara, sister of his late wife. Rose, for 
whom he had written soon after his bereavement. 
She had come out to marry the sturdy Captain, 
having doubtless made his acquaintance, and formed 
a favorable opinion of him while he was courting 
her sister Rose, The marriage was duly celebrated, 
and appears to have been a thoroughly happy and 
congenial one. The union was blessed with several 
children. Incidentally, it may be noted that there 
is a record among the Pilgrim archives of a date 
a score or more years afterwards of the marriage 
of Alexander, son of Captain Myles Standish, to 
Sarah, daughter of John Alden. If, therefore, any 
unpleasantness ever arose between the two families, 
it must have been eventually removed. 

The remainder of Captain Standish's career was 
uneventful. In 1625 he was deputed to go to Eng- 
land to buy out the interest of the merchants in the 
colony. But he was a man of war, not of affairs, 
and he was not successful. On his return, the num- 
ber of colonists being by that time "grown ex- 
ceedingly," Standish removed from Plymouth Col- 
ony to a hill on the north, thenceforth known as 
"Captain Hill," where he cultivated a farm. He 
retained his military leadership, by undertaking the 
training of the militia of the colony. He died 
October 3, 1656. He was buried with pubhc honors, 
and the great monument on Captain's Hill was 
erected to his memory. 

B. J. F. 



64 



PRINCE RUPERT 

THE history of England contains few figures: 
of a more peculiar interest than that of 
Rupert, Prince of Bohemia and General of the 
Cavaliers. The interest which belongs to his story 
is the interest of romance. The life of Rupert 
is an epic — as wild, as stirring, and as eventful as 
that of any of the heroes of Homer, of Mallory, 
or of Ariosto. In truth, with these old champions 
of the legends he had much in common. The 
interest which the details of his life excite re- 
sembles the interest excited by the exploits of 
Achilles, of Roland, or of Lancelot of the Lake. 
Like them, he moved in a constant whirl of wild 
adventure; like theirs, his fame is not the fame of 
a great general — of the brain that devises and the 
eye that foresees — it is the fame of the free hero 
who fights for his own lance. But no Homer, no 
Ariosto, has seized on Rupert's exploits and left 
them "married to immortal verse." 

He had no high ideals, but was rather a type of 
the dashing soldier of fortune. What may be called 
the first division of his life— it ended with the field 
of Naseby — is that part of it which bears conspicu- 
ously the color of romance. In its main events the 
story of that period is an follows: 

Rupert was born at Prague in December, 1619. 
His race combined the splendors of two proud 
houses. His mother was the daughter of a king 
of England; his father, Frederic, King of Bohemia 
and Palatine of the Rhine, traced his grey line 
through Otho back to Charlemagne, and beyond 
65 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

him, through the dusk of ages, to the fierce Attila, 
who was called "the Scourge of God." Rupert's 
birth was celebrated at an hour of passing peace. 
But the fiery cloud of war, then wandering over 
Europe, was already drawing threatfully towards 
his father's kingdom. Soon the savage chime of 
arms began to be heard about his cradle. The 
banners of Maximilian was seen shining on the 
slopes of the White Mountain. The battle of 
Prague M^as fought — and lost. The beautiful city 
fell. Frederic and his queen were forced to flee; 
and when at last, after months of hardship, they 
again found refuge, it was to look no more upon 
the palaces, the gardens, the bazaars, the proud 
spires, and the wandering waters of one of the 
fairest cities in the world, but upon the dykes and 
fens of Holland. The royal exiles found asylum in 
a palace at the Hague; and there for many years 
they continued to reside. 

Rupert and his elder brother were sent to the 
University of Leyden. Rupert hated the classics; 
but his passion for reading books on the science of 
war caused him to pick up French, Spanish, and 
Italian readily. In the feats of the gymnasium he 
was soon without a rival; while his aptitude for 
arms was such, that at fourteen he was judged 
capable of commanding a regiment. With the pis- 
tol he became an unerring shot — a curious proof 
of which is said to be existing at St. Mary's Church, 
at Stafford, England, where, many years later, on 
a wager Math the King, he sent two bullets in suc- 
cession through the weather-cock on the spire. Field 
sports of every kind were his delight. His mother 
had always been pre-eminently fond of hunting, and 
the boy, during his holidays, was sometimes allowed 
to join her parties. On one of these expeditions, 
Rupert and a favorite hound outstriped the rest 
of the party and became lost to sight. When the 
66 



PRINCE RUPERT 

company reached the spot where they had vanished, 
nothing was to be seen but a pair of boots sticking 
out of a hole in the bank. The astonished hunters 
pulled at the boots, and presently pulled out the 
Prince, the Prince pulled out the hound, and the 
hound pulled out the fox. Nor were foxes' tails 
his only trophies. While he was still at Leyden, 
the Prince of Orange held a tournament for the 
knight-errants of his court. Rupert entered the 
lists, overthrew all his opponents, and was crowned 
at the close of the day, amidst the notes of trumpets 
and the shouts of thousands of spectators, by a fair 
lady, with a garland of flowers. He was then not 
fifteen years of age. 

It was the succeeding year that Rupert came, 
for the first time, to England, on a visit to the 
court of his uncle Charles. That court, then at 
the height of its gay splendor, was regarded by 
every sovereign in Europe with envy and despair. 
A king of fine artistic taste, a beautiful and 
pleasure-loving queen, had combined to make of it 
a sparkling and amusing world. It was a world in 
which genius was the slave of beauty. Vandyke 
was painting there the beautiful and noble faces, 
and filling his canvas wath the peaked beards, the 
flowing locks, the jjlumed hats, the scarves, the 
ruffs, the lace collars, and the rich armor, in which 
his art delighted. Ferabasco was setting knights 
and ladies dancing all night long to the strains of 
his bright and jojous music. Inigo Jones was lay- 
ing out his terraces. Ben Jonson was displaying 
his masques. It is true that even then, outside the 
palace walls, an angry sea was rising. But, hither- 
to, the sun continued shining, though the tempest 
muttered in its caves. 

Into this world of pleasure, Charles received his 
nephew kindly, welcomed him to all the amusements 
of the court, and even promised to provide for him. 
67 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

But is was not very easy to decide how this was 
to be done. Several plans were suggested. Arch- 
bishop Laud, with some insight both into Ru- 
pert's character and into the good of the Church, 
proposed to make him a bishop. Then, on Rupert's 
refusal to deck himself in lawn sleeves and a mitre, 
a plan was projected for sending him as Viceroy 
to Madagascar, with charge to send home every 
year to England an argosy of oranges, sugar, spices, 
turtle-shells, and gold. Why this scheme fell 
through does not appear. Rupert himself was eager 
to accept it; but, for whatever reason, the expedi- 
tion never sailed. It was then resolved that Rupert 
must marry an heiress — and the daughter of the 
Duke of Rohan was the lady selected by the King. 
The match, however, came to nothing; and Rupert 
remained about the court, without any very settled 
prospects or position, hunting, dancing, sitting 
to Vandyke, and studying the fine arts, for over 
eighteen months. 

In the meantime, affairs in Bohemia were chang- 
ing. Frederic and his eldest son were now both 
dead. Charles Louis, the next in age, was heir to 
the kingdom of the Palatines, in which the decrepid 
old Duke of Bavaria now sat. Frederic had spent 
the last ten years of his life in futile efforts to 
regain his crown; and, at his death, that mission 
devolved upon his heir. But the Duke was shad- 
owed by the banners of the Empire; and the army 
which, with infinite exertion, Louis had at last 
succeeded in collecting, did not, including a detach- 
ment of the Swedes, exceed four thousand men. With 
this array, however, such as i*^ was, he resolved to 
fly at the throat of the old duke; and his plans for 
the attempt were now mature. Rupert flung him- 
self eagerly into the enterprise. Bidding adieu to 
masques and hunting-parties, he crossed over to 
his brother's camp, and plunged at once into the 
68 



PRINCE RUPERT 

smoke of war. He was placed at the head of a 
regiment of cavalry; and presently found himself, 
under the flags of battle, marching against Lemgo. 

The road lay past a grim and scowling fortress, 
the garrison of Rhennius. Rupert, burning for 
battle, and careless of his enemy, was unable to 
resist the sight. He determined to assault the 
fortress with his troop of horse. The cavalry of 
the garrison, in twice his numbers, rushed furiously 
out at his approach; and then, for the first time, 
the spectacle was seen — a spectacle afterwards to 
be witnessed with wonder and terror on many a 
famous field — of Rupert riding at the charge. The 
enemy was swept away like chaflf. A few fled back 
over the drawbridge and rushed into the town. 
There was not much more of real resistance than a 
rabble of camp-followers might have ofi'ered to the 
charge of a Roman Legion, 

Rupert, with colors flying and bugles singing, 
left the garrison to its meditations, and rejoined 
the cavalcade. The chief command of the expedi- 
tion had been committed to Count Conigsmark; the 
Swedes were under a Scotchman of the name of 
King. Of these two officers. King was a traitor, 
who was only looking for an opportunity to forsake 
the cause; while the Count's sole thought in draw- 
ing up a battle was how to place himself most 
safely in the rear. It was under these auspicious 
leaders that the Palatines at length found them- 
selves in sight of the spires of Lemgo, but cut ofl" 
from that city by a large and dangerous body of 
Austrian horse. 

The conduct of the two commanders, now that a 
battle was imminent, was exactly what might have 
been expected from their respective characters. 
King posted his infantry and artillery at a spot 
where they were likely to be useless, and refused to 
stir. Conigsmark selected a narrow defile, in which 
69 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

he drew up his forces in four lines, his own being 
the rearguard and well within the shelter of the 
gorge. Hardly were his lines in order, when the 
Austrians, in close column, dashed upon him. Their 
onset broke the first line instantly; and its flying 
masses, hurled back upon the line behind it, wrecked 
that also. The third line, which now came into 
action, was thus exposed at once to the rush of fugi- 
tives from its own side, and to the charge of the 
enemy's horse. This line was Rupert's. 

The shattered lines, instead of meeting the assail- 
ants with a charge as fiery as their own, had chosen 
to encounter the attack on their own ground. This 
was an error which Rupert was in little danger 
of committing. On seeing the ranks before him 
waver, he turned round in the saddle, and shook 
his drawn sword in the air. Instantly the spurs 
flew into the flanks of the horses of his five hundred. 
The charge that followed swept the enemy head- 
long out of the defile into the open plain. 

The brilliancy of this exploit was extreme. It is 
half pitiful, half ludicrous, to relate the cause 
which made it unavailing. It had now become the 
duty of the rearguard to dart forward in support 
of Rupert's charge; and, had this been done, the 
chance of victory might nave been recovered. But 
the disaster of the foremost lines had been enough 
for Conigsmark; and the Count, with a white face 
and a beating heart, was already retreating up the 
gorge at the top of his speed. Rupert was left 
alone and unsupported in the midst of tenfold odds. 
King looked on with unconcern; the enemy had 
time to rally; fresh troops were hurried up, and 
though fighting every foot of ground with desperate 
courage, Rupert's men were gradually forced back 
into the gorge. Soon parties of the enemy began 
to gather on the hills above them, and to steal 
downwards among the boulders in their rear. 
70 



PRINCE RUPERT 

Nothing SO much resembles the spectacle which 
followed as some wild story of the ancient legends. 
Rupert's position was desperate; his friends had 
forsaken him; he was caught in a trap. At the 
foot of the only standard which still reared above 
the tempest the colors of the Palatines, he fought 
till every man about him fell. Then, collecting his 
strength for a final eflfort, he burst through the 
swords of his assailants, and put his horse at a 
stone wall. The exhausted beast refused the leap, 
and fell back upon his haunches. Before he could 
recover himself a score of cuirassiers rushed up, 
and Rupert was a prisoner. 

This first experience singularly resembles that of 
every field in which, in after years, he played a 
part. That day was fatal to his cause; but it cov- 
ered his own name with glory. And such was to be 
Rupert's fate through life. He never charged an 
enemy whom he did not scatter to the winds. At 
Rhennius, at Lemgo, at Worcester, at Edgehill, at 
Marston Moor, at Naseby — it was everywhere the 
same. It was his singular destiny to fight for the 
falling flag on every field, and yet to emerge from 
every field with added glory. 

He was now the captive of the Empire. His 
prison was appointed in the ancient Tower of Lmtz 
■ — a rock-built, battlemented donjon, black with age, 
which looked gloomily upon the waters of the 
Danube. Except for the loss of liberty, however, 
he was put to no great hardship. It is true that 
Ferdinand, nettled at his abrupt refusal either to 
ask for pardon, to turn Catholic, or to fight under 
the Austrian banners, put him for a short time vnider 
guard; but generally he enjoyed the freedom of the 
castle and the castle gardens; and in course of 
time he even obtained leave of parole for three days 
together, during which he was free to pay visits in 
the neighborhood of the castle, to hunt the chamois 
Tl 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

■among the perilous crags which overhung the river, 
or to track, among the windings of the lower 
valleys, a fox, a wild boar, or a stag of ten. Nor 
was the ancient Tower a dungeon wholly given up 
to gloom. Count Kuifstein, the governor of the 
castle, was an old soldier, with whom it was no 
hardship for a younger to exchange a story, of a 
sociable disposition ; while his daughter. Mademoiselle 
de Kuffstein, was a lovely girl, whose beauty and 
spirit had won the hearts of numberless adorers for 
ten miles up and down the Danube. Such society, 
even in a prison, makes time fly; and, moreover, 
Rupert, even when debarred from hunting, discov- 
ered several means of lightening the burden of 
captivity. He studied chemistry; he played tennis; 
he practised with a rifle; he tamed a hare, as a 
present to the Lady of the Tower; he improved, 
with the same object, a device of Albert Durer for 
drawing perspectives. He also spent much time 
and patience in training a magnificent white dog, 
of a very rare breed, whom he called Boy. This 
dog, who afterwards accompanied him in all his 
perils, became in time as well known in the field as 
his master, and almost as much dreaded; for when 
Rupert's name had grown to be a sound of terror 
in the ears of the Roundheads, his dog was re- 
garded by the superstitious among them as a famil- 
iar spirit, who brought him unvarying success. 
Various extraordinary opinions arose respecting the 
dog's nature and power. Some declared that he 
could swallow the deadliest poison without injury. 
Some held that he was, in reality, a Lapland lady, 
who had been changed by enchantment into an ani- 
mal. Some believed that he was a powerful wizard, 
and some that he was the devil. One thing, how- 
ever, is certain — that no wizardry had rendered him 
immortal; for, to Rupert's infinite regret, he was 
killed at last in the battle of Marston Moor. 
79 



PRINCE RUPERT 

The Prince had need of all his devices to kill 
time; for his captivity was long. Three years were 
wasted in negotiations for his release. At the end 
of that time he found himself at liberty, without 
other condition than his word of parole that he 
would not again take arms against the Empire. 

Those years had covered England with a gloom 
that deepened. Charles had now advanced to the 
\erge of war. The Queen was in Holland, em- 
ployed in pledging the crown jewels, and endea- 
voring to raise supplies. Henrietta sent for Ru- 
pert, informed him that the King had appointed 
him General of the Horse, and was then expecting 
him in England. Rupert put hastily to sea in a 
small vessel called the Lion, which was driven back 
by a tempest and nearly wrecked. He again set 
sail, and landed at last at Tynemouth in the dusk 
of an evening which, though the month was August, 
was as cold as winter. Impatiently refusing to delay 
his journey for an instant, he threw himself on a 
horse and rode forward. In the midst of a dark 
and frozen road the horse slipped, his rider was 
thrown violently against a jagged edge of rock, and 
dislocated his shoulder. The limb was set by a 
surgeon who was luckily discovered within half a 
mile of the spot. But Rupert, to his great vexation, 
lost some hours. 

At length, in spite of every misadventure, he 
came up with the King. The place was Leicester 
Abbey. The time was evening — the evening which 
preceded a momentous day. War had not yet been 
finally declared. But the next morning, upon a 
rising ground within the park at Nottingham, the 
King unfurled his standard. An omen attended the 
ceremony which would have appeared to a Roman 
soothsayer as full of warning as a sacred chicken 
which refused its food, or bullock found at the 
sacrifice to be without a heart. No sooner was the 
73 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

standard raised than a fierce tempest blew it down. 
Again the heralds raised it; and again, as if the 
ancient elemental powers viewed with indignation 
the folly of man, the tempest bore the stand- 
ard away. At last it was secured with strong cords 
to the flagstaff on the turret of the ancient castle, 
and the little blood-red flag of battle which 
streamed above it was seen shining afar out over 
the windy vale of Trent. 

And now, in awful and splendid succession, the 
scenes of England's Civil War begin to pass before 
us. At those scenes we shall glance rapidly, be- 
holding, as in the rolling pictures of a panorama, a 
few of the varied aspects of Rupert in the field. 

The Royal Horse, to which he found himself 
appointed, consisted of a few ranks of ragged 
troopers, ill-equipped with corselets, casques, and 
even swords. At the head of these, Rupert rode 
out of Nottingham. For a month he scoured the 
country day and night: he stormed garrisons, taxed 
cities, despoiled the tormented Puritans of horses, 
saddles, swords, carbines, pistols, armor, doublets, 
plumes; and at the end of that time rode into 
Shrewsbury at the head of more than three thousand 
followers, all mounted on good horses, armed with 
good swords, glittering from head to foot in coats 
of mail, gay with crimson cloaks, gilt spurs, and 
dancing feathers, and burning for battle, with all 
the spirit of their chief. 

With some five hundred of these troops he was 
resting, on an autumn afternoon, in some meadows 
outside Worcester. The day was sultry; the men 
were hot and wearied; and they were glad to take 
off their armor, which had become heated by the 
sun, and to lie down at full length in the deep grass, 
under the shadow of a clump of lime trees. No 
enemy was suspected to be at hand; no watch was 
kept; and the first signal of danger was given by a 
74 



PRINCE RUPERT 

trooper who chanced to lift his head out of the deep 
herbage, and whose eye was caught by the sparkle 
of a coat of mail emerging from a narrow road 
which led towards the meadows. The alarm was 
just in time. A thousand horse, the picked troops 
of the enemy, clad in complete armor, had stolen 
upon them in the silence of the autumn day, and 
were on the point of sweeping down upon their 
drowsy groups. Rupert snatched a sword, leapt 
into a saddle, and dashed bare-headed upon their 
ranks. His men flew after him. Four hundred of 
the enemy were killed on the spot, or swept into 
the river and drowned. The rest flew back into 
Pershore in a panic of fear. While the sight of 
their white faces and bloody spurs was striking 
terror into the people of the town, Rupert, with six 
standards and a rich prize of horses, went leisurely 
back to pick up his armor under the lime trees. He 
had lost only five men. 

Two days later he was riding out alone, for the 
purpose of reconnoitring the position of the enemy. 
Their camp was posted in Dunsmore Heath. On 
the road he came up with a country fellow, who was 
sitting on the shaft of an apple-cart, and floggir ^ 
his horse in the direction of the camp. Rupert 
bribed the man with a guinea, put on his smock- 
frock and slouched hat, took his seat on the shaft, 
cracked his whip, and proclaiming in a loud voice 
that his apples were the finest and the cheapest in 
the world, drove coolly into the heart of the enemy's 
encampment. There he inspected their position at 
leisure, sold his apples to the troopers, and drove 
the cart back to its owner, who was holding his 
horse in the "road. Then, taking off his disguise, 
and giving the man another guinea, he bade hiin 
drive in turn into the camp and inquire of the 
soldiers, "How they like the apples which Prince 
Rupert had sold them?" 

75 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

A month later, the full force of the King's army 
met the full force of the Roundheads at the battle 
of Edgehill. Rupert's share in that great action 
may be summed up very briefly. He won one por- 
tion of the battle. His allies lost the other. 

On the morning of that day, the royal troops 
were drawn up on the brow of the steep rising 
which looks down upon the Vale of the Red Horse. 
Below them, a wide plain stretched towards the 
town of Kineton; and from the streets of the town 
the Roundhead army came streaming forth into the 
open ground. First came Stapleton's cuirassiers, 
glittering in bright armor; then the troops of Denzil 
Holies, of Lord Brook, and of Lord Mandeville, in 
scarlet, in purple, and in blue. Rupert looked upon 
their hosts with glistening eyes. The day was Sun- 
day; the time was the middle of the afternoon; the 
church bells were ringing among the elms on each 
side of the valley; and among the enemy the forms 
of the dark-robed preachers could be seen, moving 
with eager gestures between the armored ranks. On 
the King's side, the prayer of one brave man has 
been preserved for us: "O Lord, Thou knowest how 
busy I must be this day; if I forget Thee, do not 
Thou forget me !" Such was the simple and noble 
prayer of Lindsey. 

Rupert, at the head of his cavalry, rode slowly 
down the steep. The rest of the King's army fol- 
lowed, and gathered in the plain. It is said that its 
plumed and glittering ranks were watched from the 
hills by a spectator, whose name is written on the 
scroll of fame in letters more lasting than their own. 
From the slopes above the valley Harvey, the dis- 
coverer of the circulation of the blood, is said to 
have watched, for many hours, the progress of the 
battle through a glass. 

As the guns began to roar, Rupert, at the head 
of his brilliant troop, dashed forward at the charge. 
76 



PRINCE RUPERT 

The ranks before him were swept back into the 
town in hopeless rout. Ramsey, their leader, drove 
the spurs into his horse and galloped towards St. 
Albans. Lord Wharton fled headlong into a saw- 
pit, from which he peeped out at intervals at the 
Cavaliers despoiling his baggage, and thanked 
heaven that he was safe. Rupert, while his men were 
engaged in completing the victory and collecting 
the spoil, rode back, with a few attendants, to the 
field. He expected, as was natural, that what his 
wild energy had found so easy his allies had not 
found impossible. But the event had proved far 
otherwise. When he reached the field, he found the 
remnants of the two armies still engaged in a bitter 
struggle. The ground was strewn with the dead 
and dying; the royal standard was taken; and only 
a few noblemen were left about the King. 

Rupert had no men with whom to charge. Night 
was falling; and before either side could claim a 
victory, darkness parted the contending armies. 
Lord Wharton crept out of his saw-pit, and made 
off to his own party. There was no moon; a biting 
wind was blowing; and Rupert and the King sat all 
that night beside a fire of brushwood, which they 
kept burning on the hillside. When day dawned, 
the two broken armies, like two wounded wolves, lay 
glaring at each other, neither daring to renew the 
fight. When night again fell, Essex drew off his 
shattered forces, leaving the empty name of victory 
to the King. In reality, the only victor of that day 
was Rupert. 

The King retired to Oxford; and gradually his 
court, which was now settled there, began to re- 
assume some likeness of its ancient splendor. Ru- 
pert had rooms in Christchurch ; and thence was to 
be seen, for many months, darting out at intervals, 
over the ancient bridge at Magdalen, to skirmish 
with the enemy, or to head the storming parties at 
77 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

the walls of towns and garrisons. At Brentford, 
which was the first to feel his power, his cavalry 
was stopped by redoubts of stones, and by barri- 
cades of carts, waggons, tables, chairs, and beds, 
through which poured a ceaseless fire of musketry. 
Rupert headed a troop of foot, tore the barricades 
in pieces, rushed into the breach at the head of his 
cavalry, and swept the enemy out of the streets. 
At Lichiield, for the first time in English warfare, 
he employed a powder-mine. The walls of the 
Cathedral close, within which the enemy was en- 
sconced, were too strong for his artillery. Rupert 
drained the moat, constructed a mine, and filled it 
with five barrels of powder. In the meantime the 
mine was ready. Rupert waited for the evening. 
The match was applied; a tremendous explosion was 
heard; a yawning gulf, filled with smoke, appeared 
in the walls; and the besiegers rushed in through 
the ruins. The enemy, in terror, instantly raised a 
w^hite flag on the Cathedral, and surrendered. Rupert 
allowed them to march out under the honors of 
war. 

On a Sunday morning in the middle of June his 
trumpets were heard ringing among the cloisters 
and quadrangles of the ancient city; and presently, 
amidst the cheering of the people, Rupert and his 
cavalry were seen riding out across the bridge and 
through the city gates. He first fell upon Lewknor, 
an outpost of the enemy, where he seized a great 
number of horses, arms, and prisoners. Thence he 
pushed on through Chinnor, where he stormed an- 
other outpost, and came up with the main body of 
the enemy at Chalgrove Field. There he drew up 
his cavalry in a wide cornfield bounded by a hedge; 
and in this position he waited, while the enemy, 
pouring down the slopes of Gelder's Hill, advanced 
on the other side of the dividing barrier. Pres- 
ently their skirmishers began to fire their carbines 
78 



PRINCE RUPERT 

between the roots of the low fence of thorn. That 
sound was Rupert's signal. He instantly rushed 
over the hedge at the head of his men and scattered 
their ranks to the winds. 

It was in attempting to resist this charge that 
Hampden received the wound that caused his death. 
No reader of Macaulay will have forgotten his 
pathetic picture of the dying patriot, as "with his 
head drooping, and his hands resting on his horse's 
neck, he moved feebly out of the battle." Within 
six days he was a corpse. 

In the meatime, Rupert rode back to Oxford. 
His troops were followed by a long train of pri- 
soners, horses, captured standards, and baggage- 
wagons heaped with spoil. The huzzas of the towns- 
people and the smiles of the court ladies greeted 
his return. Within a space of forty-eight hours 
from the time he started he had ridden fifty miles, 
taken two outposts and many standards, fought and 
won a pitched battle, killed both the officers who 
opposed him, left a great number of the enemy 
dead on the field, and lost of his own party only 
five men. 

Some time after this. Lord Essex, with a body of 
troops, was passing through the forests of Auborn 
Chase, eager to reach Newbury before the King. 
No enemy was suspected to be at hand, and the earl 
rode carelessly through the flowery glades. The 
turf was soft and spongy, and the fall of a horse's 
hoof awoke no sound. Suddenly a troop of riders, 
noiseless as a flight of phantoms, appeared among 
the distant beechen boles and came sweeping over 
the turf upon his ranks. The ghosts were Rupert 
and his cavaliers. A sharp encounter followed. 
Essex was beaten back to Hungerford, and the 
King reached Newbury before him. 

At sunrise the next morning, the two armies 
marched out to the encounter. The strife was bit- 
79 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

terly contested. AH that day the fight went on. 
Night fell; the losses on both sides were deadly; 
yet the victory was undecided. The King, with 
the fragments of his army, retired into the town. 
The enemy, equally broken, prepared to snatch a 
few hours of rest, for the trumpets were to sound 
for retreat at break of day. But twelve hours of 
desperate fighting had not sated Rupert. In the 
silence of the night he stole about the sleeping town, 
and mustered, by the gleam of the watch-fires and 
the torches, a small band of men and horses. Mov- 
ing out with these in the grey light of morning, he 
caught the enemy in a defile, as they toiled away 
beneath their baggage, cut down a great number of 
them, and would have killed or taken many more, 
but that his men were dropping out of their saddles 
with weariness, and their horses almost falling down 
at every step. 

It is in such adventures, of which these are but 
specimens of events that happened daily, that Ru- 
pert is best seen. In the great battles of the Eng- 
lish Civil War, though his personal achievements 
were not less, his glory was eclipsed by the disaster 
of his allies. It is not by these that we can judge 
him rightly. And yet we cannot bring ourselves to 
turn away without one glance at the two great 
English battle-fields which were to follow— the fields 
of Marston Moor and Naseby. 

Marston Moor! No battle-scene in history is 
more impressive than that which is conjured up 
before the mind at the name of that famous field. 
We see the sun setting in angry splendor, dyeing 
all the clouds with blood ; we see the fields of yellow 
rye in which the Puritans were drawn up, and the 
gorse-bushes and the broken ground which was the 
station of the King; we see the air dark with brood- 
ing storm; we hear the fierce hymn rolled from the 
ranks of the Puritans, mingled with the boom of 
80 



PRINCE RUPERT 

thunder; we see Rupert, in his scarlet cloak, facing 
the grim battalions of the Scots; we see Cromwell, 
yet an unrisen meteor, praying at the head of his 
fierce host; then we see the wild charge of Rupert, 
and the ranks of the Tartans whirled away before 
him like the leaves of winter; and then, in the 
gloom of storm and darkness, the heart of the 
King's battle breaking before Cromwell. It was 
Rupert's constant fate — and it was so at Mars- 
ton Moor — to find that while the enemy had been 
flying like deer before him, his companions had 
been flying before the enemy; and so it was to 
be again at Naseby. It has been often stated that 
in that last great contest of the Civil War, Rupert 
faced the forces of Cromwell, and was beaten back. 
This is an error. Rupert and Cromwell — the uncon- 
quered champions of their parties — never met. It 
is true that at Naseby Rupert eagerly sought Crom- 
well ; but Cromwell had taken the right wing, while 
Rupert believed that he was stationed on the left, 
Rupert on that day, as ever, scattered his opponents 
to the winds. Then believing, as at Edgehill and at 
Marston Moor, that the victory was won, he rode 
carelessly back to the field, and reined his horse on 
the crest of the overlooking hill. He instantly dis- 
covered his mistake. There in the vale below him 
he saw Cromwell, at the head of his men, with his 
helmet knocked off, and the blood streaming down 
his face from a wound above the eye, driving the 
Cavaliers in wild disorder among the low bushes 
of a rabbit warren. He saw the King strive to 
rally his men for a last charge. He saw an attend- 
ant lay his hand on the King's bridle, and turn 
away his horse's head. Of what followed we are 
able, from descriptions which have come down to 
us, to form a singularly exact idea. 

Rupert spurred his horse into the press, and 
fought his way to the King's side. They rode 
81 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

together from the field. On the crest of the rising 
ground which overlooked the plain, they drew rein 
for a moment, and cast a last glance at the scene 
below them. The Puritan soldiers, flushed with vic- 
tory, covered the whole field with a raging flood of 
men and horses. Such of their own party as were 
not riding ofl^ the ground were either lying among 
the heaps of slain or huddled together in groups of 
guarded captives. Mingled with the sombre banners 
of the Puritans, in which five Bibles were displayed 
against a ground of black, there could now be seen 
shining above the hosts of the victorious enemy the 
crimson folds of the captured Royal Standard, and 
the snow-white silken ensign of the Queen. From 
that sight the two spectators turned away their 
eyes, and rode silently together into the falling night. 

The war was over. Rupert had ridden his last 
charge in England. 

The scenes at which we have been glancing, briefly 
and rapidly as they have passed before us, may 
have perhaps attained the purpose of denoting in 
M^hat light the figure of Rupert ought to be re- 
garded. He is usually dismissed by historians with 
the remark that his character lacked the essential 
qualities that make a general great — foresight, pa- 
tience, tactics, discipline. But it is not as a great 
general that we think of Rupert. The interest 
which surounds his figure is of a different kind. 
He is one of the seekers of adventure — a free lance, 
a soldier of fortune. His forerunners are the an- 
cient heroes of romance: Achilles whirling in his 
chariot; Eviradnus darting into the cave of Hugo 
the eagle-headed; Roland, with his sword Durandal, 
defying the ten kings. Such are the fit compari- 
sons of Rupert in the field — such are the com- 
panion pictures which arise before the eye of fancy, 
as it views his flag flying over conquered cities, or 
his white plume shining in the front of battle. 



SIR WILLIAM PHIPS 

WILLIAM PHIPS, who was destined in his 
varied career to be a shepherd, ship-carpen- 
ter, treasure-seeker, knight, governor, admiral, and 
general, was born February 2, 1651, in the town of 
Woolwich, Maine, near the mouth of the Kennebec 
River. His father was a gunsmith, one of the most 
useful occupations at that period of our colonial his- 
tory, and had emigrated from the English town of 
Bristol during the early days of the Massachusetts 
Bay Colony. The Phips family was remarkable 
for its size, and no settlement that contained it 
could be truthfully called small. It numbered 
twenty-eight; there were twenty-six children, four 
daughters and twenty-one sons. The future knight 
was the youngest of this numerous progeny, and, 
as his father died soon after William's birth, he 
was brought up by his mother. 

When but a lad, he was put to the work of tend- 
ing sheep on the rocky hillsides near his home, and 
legends say that, young as he was, he chafed under 
the monotony of his existence, and that he looked 
with longing eyes at every sail that whitened itself 
for a moment in the sunlight against the blue ho- 
rizon of the sea. 

The district of Maine had become, in the very 
first days of colonial enterprise, a region noted 
for ship-building. Its deeply indented coast of- 
fered numerous safe harbors, and its navigable 
rivers gave access to the interior. The great for- 
ests provided every kind of timber necessary for 
the construction of vessels, its pines being of such 
83 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

value for masts that they were taken to England 
by the shipload. Many an English man-of-war, 
that upheld the claims of the proud mistress of the 
seas, spread its snowy sails on spars and masts 
from the Maine forests. 

Young Phips, filled with the love of the sea and 
of ships, gave up the prosaic life of a shepherd, 
and apprenticed himself to a ship-carpenter. He 
remained with him for four years, taking occa- 
sional cruises to Boston or along the New England 
coast. Having completed the time for which he was 
bound to the shipwright, his relatives were anx- 
ious to have him settle down near them, but, ac- 
cording to his biographer, Mather, he even then 
had visions of greatness, and wanted to go out 
into the great world, and see if it did not hold 
greater things for William PTiips than a fisher- 
man's cottage on the Pine Tree Coast. 

In 1773 he went to Boston to live, and while 
working as a shipwright, spent all of his spare 
hours learning to read and write. He was a ruddy, 
strapping youth, and found favor in the ej^es of a 
fair widow, who was well endowed by fortune. She 
was also of good social position, being a daughter of 
Captain Roger Spencer, who at one time was one of 
the most prominent men in the colony of Massachu- 
setts Bay. Phips married the widow, and with the 
financial backing of his wife's fortune, he embarked 
upon a large business venture. He made a con- 
tract with some Boston merchants to build them a 
trading ship on the shores of the Sheepscot River, 
a little to the east of the Kennebec. The ship 
was completed and launched successfully. Phips 
secured a cargo of lumber, and was preparing to 
sail his ship on its first voyage to Boston. The 
lumber, however, was not to reach its destination. 
The Eastern Indians suddenly broke from their 
forest fastnesses, bent on the destruction of all the 
84 



SIR WILLIAM PHIPS 

English settlements in Maine, The frightened in- 
habitants took refuge on Phips' ship, and, leaving 
the lumber, Phips sailed off to Boston. The loss 
of the lumber caused him great financial embar- 
rassment, but he went cheerily to work to redeem 
his fortunes. He consoled his wife, by telling her 
that some day he would tread the quarter-deck of 
a King's ship, and that he would make her the 
proud mistress of "a fair brick house in the 
Green Lane of North Boston." 

Phips worked steadily at shipbuUding, and 
made short trading voyages when good- opportun- 
ities offered. In 1684, eleven years after his 
first arival at the provincial capital, he saw his 
chance to win both fame and fortune. To many, 
his scheme would have appeared as a golden dream 
of the night, to be smiled over and forgotten with 
the day. He had heard about the docks and in 
the seaside taverns, numerous tales of pirates and 
of treasure-ships sailing the Spanish Main. For 
Phips these tales had a peculiar fascination, and 
he used to think them over as he laid the keel or 
set the ribs of some stout fishing or trading boat 
in his Boston shipyard. At last he heard a story 
that set his heart and brain on fire. An old salt 
told him that a Spanish ship, laden with bars of 
silver and ingots of gold, had struck a reef off the 
Bahama Islands some years before, and gone to the 
bottom. The water in which the wreck lay was not 
deep, and Phips determined to find it. Setting 
sail in a small ship of his own, he found the 
wreck. So far the seaman's tale was true. The 
great wealth she was said to contain was only 
part true. Phips managed to fish only enough 
silver from her hold to pay the expenses of his 
voyage. He was about to return home somewhat 
disappointed, when he heard that off Port de la 
Plata a great Spanish galleon, loaded from keel 
85 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

to deck with treasure, had sunk fifty years before, 
and he resolved to find it. 

Phips' own means, however, were too small to 
carry out such a big project, and he went to 
England to induce the English Government to take 
part in the search. In 1684, he was made com- 
mander of the Rose-Algiers by the Admiralty, on 
whom he had made a great impression with his 
straightforward ways, and tales of hidden gold. 
They thought if he could find one valuable ship at 
the bottom of the sea, he could probably find 
another. 

The Rose-Algier mounted eighteen guns, and 
carried a crew of ninety-five men. It is supposed 
that even the king must have been interested in the 
romantic adventure, otherwise it would seem odd 
that Phips should have been given such a valuable 
ship for such an enterprise. The crew, however, 
was as bad as the one that made the famous voy- 
age to Treasure Island, in the thrilling romance of 
Stevenson. It was a "scratch crew," picked up 
from everywhere, and the appearance of its mem- 
bers was a sure warning of coming trouble. 

The exact location of the treasure-ship off" Port 
de la Plata was unknown, and many weeks were 
spent groping about in the depth of the sea with 
grappling irons. Sand, sea weed, and shells were 
all the treasure that came from the bottom, and 
the crew got tired of what they thought was a 
fool's errand. They began to murmur against the 
strict discipline and hard work. A committee of 
the forecastle waited on Phips, as he was pacing 
the quarter deck, and demanded that the ship be 
turned into a pirate craft, and sailed to attack 
the Spanish towns in the West Indies, where gold 
could be got in an easier way than by diving for 
it day after day. Phips, not a whit dismayed, 
ordered the men back to duty, but the trouble was 
86 



SIR WILLIAM PHIPS 

not yet over. A little later they came back with 
pistols tucked up their sleeves, and went into the 
captain's quarters, Phips had laid aside his own 
weapons, but seeing the mutineers, he rushed on 
them and secured the ringleaders. Cowed by his 
boldness, the rest of the crew gave up. 

The malcontents, however, were loth to give up 
their design; probably most of them had been 
pirates before. A more elaborate plot was now 
formed. The ship was lying at anchor off the 
coast of a small island, and had been slightly ca- 
reened by Phips in order to land some stores and 
tents, for it was his intention to make the island 
the base of his operations in that vicinity. The 
vessel had been fastened by a large cable ta a 
large rock, which jutted out from shore, and a 
bridge built from the ship to the rock. The crew, 
getting shore leave, went deep into the woods, and 
in a solemn council, bound themselves by the most 
desperate oaths to take the ship, and make the 
captain and the officers prisoners. The attempt 
was to be made at eight that evening, and Phips 
and his men, after being secured, were to be 
marooned on the island, while the mutineers were 
to hoist the black flag with the skull and cross- 
bones, and sail away for plunder in the South Sea. 

It was necessary, however, for them to have the 
ship's carpenter. Getting him into the woods on 
some pretext, they informed him concerning their 
design, and threatened him with death if he be- 
trayed them or refused to join. He asked for 
half an hour to consider their proposition, and 
also asked for permission to go back to the ship 
to get his tools. The conspirators consented to 
this, but sent there three of their number with 
him; they were to watch his every movement, and 
if he showed any signs of betraying them, he was 
to be instantly killed and thrown over board. 
87 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

No sooner was the carpenter on board, than he 
was taken violently ill, and he was permitted to go 
down the companion-way to the medicine chest. 
The illness was a ruse, and he made his way to 
Phips, and hurriedly told him the danger he was 
in. Phips told the carpenter to go back with the 
mutineers, and, while watching their movements, 
Phips would have time to prepare to meet them. 

Phips found that all of the men left on board 
were loyal, and he at once put them at work. 
The guns that had been put on shore to defend 
the supplies, were at once disabled, and all the 
powder and shot brought back on board. The 
bridge was then raised, and the cannon on ship- 
board loaded and aimed toward the woods. Hardly 
had these preparations been completed, when the 
mutineers were seen coming out of the underbrush. 
Phips called to them to stay where they were or he 
would open fire. The bridge was again put down, 
and some of the crew went ashore to bring in the 
remainder of the supplies. Phips then told the 
mutineers that he understood that he and his 
officers were to be left to perish, but the tables 
had been turned, and that they were to be left to 
starve instead. 

The mutineers at once threw down their arms 
and implored Phips to take them back, and told 
him that they had no cause for complaint, except 
his refusal to turn pirate. 

Phips did not have half enough men to sail the 
ship with safety, much less fight her, if the need 
should arise, so he let them on board, but under a 
stout guard. Phips at once weighed anchor and 
sailed for Jamaica, where he sent the greater part 
of the crew ashore, and got other men in their 
places. Again setting sail, he put in to Hispanola 
for further information in regard to the where- 
abouts of the sunken treasure-ship. He was for- 
88 



SIR WILLIAM PHIPS 

timate enough to find an old Spanish sailor who 
knew the story, and was able to point out the reef 
where the ship had gone down. Phips could not 
find the wreck, and his own ship was sadly in 
need of repair. He was compelled to sail for 
England, leaving the treasure undisturbed at the 
bottom of the sea. 

The naval authorities, notwithstanding the ill- 
success of the venture, received Phips with con- 
siderable favor. Hp commanded their admiration, 
by the way in which he had subdued his mutinous 
crew and carried out the "secondary objects" of 
the cruise. They could not spare him another 
ship of war, and it would take many months to 
properly refit the Rose-Algier. Phips at once 
cast about for some way of securing a large 
merchant vessel. The Earl of Albermarle took up 
the scheme, and interested a few of his friends. 
They bought a ship and gave Phips the command. 
The King gave Albermarle the exclusive right to 
any wrecks the expedition might be fortunate 
enough to find. 

Again the intrepid New Englander sailed for 
Port de la Plata. A tender was constructed under 
Phips' own supervision, that w^as to be anchored 
over the reef, while the large ship remained safe 
in port. After the tender had been moored, the 
men got into a small row boat, and the men began 
their explorations. Divers were sent down, while 
the crew hung over the gunwales, watching and 
directing them. The water was so clear, that every 
crevice of the rocks was distinctly visible. Time 
and again the divers plunged downward, only to 
come puffing to the surface with the report, "No 
signs." 

The crew were ab^ut to give up the search for the 
day, when one of the men asked an Indian diver 
to get him a curious sea plant that had caught 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

his eye as it swayed in the current far below. 
The Indian brought it up, and reported that near 
it he had seen several cannon. Instantly all was 
excitement. The divers all plunged at once, and 
one of them soon came to the surface, bearing a 
great bar of silver that was worth about three 
hundred pounds in English money, or $1,500 in our 
own. A buoy was anchored to mark the spot, and 
the men rowed hurriedly to Phips. At first he 
would not believe their story; but when he saw the 
great silver bar, he exclaimed: 

"Thanks be to God, we are all made." 

Within a week, three hundred thousand pounds' 
worth of gold and silver was brought to the sur- 
face, and safely stored beneath the hatches of 
Phips' ship. The bars and ingots of gold and 
silver were taken first, and then the coin was dis- 
covered. It had been tied in bags and used for 
ballast. The bags had become overgrown with 
incrustations of shells, and when the covering was 
smashed with iron bars, the coins rushed out in a 
small and shimmering stream upon the deck. Here 
and there glittered diamonds, rubies, and other 
precious stones. 

A small vessel came down from Rhode Island 
to carry home some of the precious cargo. Its 
commander, Adderly, had been with Phips when he 
discovered the other treasure-ship oflF the Bahama 
Islands. He loaded his little craft with silver 
to the amount of several thousand pounds, when 
prosperity was too much for him. He went insane, 
and died two years later in Bermuda. 

Phips, on account of his stock of provisions 
running low, had to leave the wrecl^; before all of 
the treasure had been secured. Twenty bars of 
silver were brought on board the last day of his 
stay at the reef. When Phips returned a year 
later, he found that the wreck had been completely 
90 



SIR WILLIAM PHIPS 

cleared, some of Adderley's men having given 
away the secret of its location to some people in 
Bermuda. It is said that besides the scanty sup- 
ply of provisions, there were other reasons for 
leaving Port de la Plata. The crew was of uncer- 
tain make-up, or rather Phips was certain that 
no crew of that day could be trusted with so much 
money on board, and he wished to get it safely to 
England with as little delay as possible. 

The men were promised a certain per centage of 
the profits of the voyage, in addition to their 
regular wages, and, keeping careful watch over 
them, Phips set sail and reached England in 1687. 
He was afraid during the voyage that the crew 
might rise and murder the officers, so it was with 
a sense of relief that he was able to pay them off 
and turn over the ship and her cargo to the Duke 
of Albermarle and his associates. Phips' share of 
the enterprise was £16,000. Albermarle sent Phips' 
wife a gold cup, valued at $5,000, and the King 
made William Phips a knight. He also asked 
him to remain in England, and offered him a 
place in the public service. Phips, however, loved 
New England, and he returned there shortly after, 
one of its richest and most honored citizens. 
It is interesting to know that his wife got the 
"fair brick house in the Green Lane" that her hus- 
band had promised her when the sun of prosperity 
did not shine so brightly as it did now. 

During Sir AVilliam's absence, matters had been 
going badly with his neighbors in the good town 
of Boston. The Massachusetts Charter had been 
annulled and Sir Edmund Andros, he of the vio- 
lent temper, was governor of the province. The 
governor made the laws, and no assembly was 
elected by the people. Taxes were levied, and 
judges and other officers removed or appointed at 
will. Packed juries settled important cases, unless 
91 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

the defendants compromised by paying large sums 
into the treasury. Phips wished to help his coun- 
trymen, and he was appointed by the Crown to the 
otTice of Sheriff of New England. This would 
allow him to select jurors, and otherwise aid his 
distressed neighbors in their legal battles with Sir 
Edmund Andros. The Governor saw to it that Sir 
William Phips' commission was rendered useless, 
through technicalities, of which he was master. 
Phips could do nothing in New England, and re- 
turned to the mother country to redress his wrongs 
and those of his province, if it were possible. This 
was in 1689. William of Orange was now on the 
throne, and Sir Edmund Andros, as the appointee 
of his predecessor, was without political influence. 
The people of Boston, when they heard of the 
change of government at London, rose in a body 
and made Andros a prisoner. The old Governor 
Bradstreet took his place, and the people began 
to carry on public business, the government under 
the old charter. They sent word to London of 
what they had done. 

Sir William Phips now returned to New England, 
and on his arrival found the colony engaged in a 
desperate war with the Indians. He asked at once 
for a military command, although he had had but 
little military experience on shore. He was too 
patriotic and active a man to stay at home while 
others were risking their lives for the defence of 
the frontiers. 

The French joined the Indians, and the war was 
carried on with great energy and skill by Count 
Frontenac, the Governor of New France (Canada). 
Fort Pemaquid, one of the strongest fortifications 
in New England, fell after a brief siege. Salmon 
Falls, in New Hampshire, and Schenectady, in New 
York, were taken and burned, and the people mas- 
sacred. The colonists determined to strike a re- 
92 



SIR WILLIAM PHIPS 

taliatory blow, and an expedition was planned 
against Port Royal, capital of the French province 
of Acadia. French privateers and Abenaki Indians 
made it a starting point for raids against the New 
England settlements. To destroy it would be to 
rid of the English of a hornet's nest. 

The government had no money for the expedition, 
so a number of gentlemen in the colony were al- 
lowed to take it up as a private enterprise. The 
order was issued in January, 1690, Sir William 
tried to induce his friends to go into the scheme, 
but they would not venture. At last the colony 
saw that they must do it "at the public charge and 
with all speed," the reason being that several 
expeditions from Port Royal had harried the 
frontier once more. 

A fleet of eight ships was assembled off Nantas- 
ket, near Boston. The troops, mostly volunteers, 
embarked, and, after receiving the final order from 
Governor Bradstreet, in the quaint language of 
the day, "to take care that the worship of God be 
maintained and duly observed on board all the 
vessels," Phips set sail. 

On the 11th of May, as the French Governor, 
M. de Meneval, paced the bastions of the fort of 
Port Royal, a distant sail, just tipping the edge 
of the horizon, caught his eye. One from France, 
thought he; but as he gazed, one ship after another 
appeared in line, and from their peaks waved not 
the lilies of France, but the crimson cross of St. 
George of England. 

The Governor was taken completely by surprise. 
He had no ships to meet the fleet, and the garrison 
of the fort was too small to stand a long siege. 
He resolved to hold out for a time, notwithstanding 
his difficult position, and refused the summons to 
surrender. 

No sooner had his answer reached Sir William 
93 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

Phips, than a cloud of smoke burst from the side 
of the flagship, and the ripping and crashing of 
the palisades of the town told the Governor that 
the New England gunners had made their shot 
strike home. Under the steady fire of the fleet, 
the New Englanders landed on the beach with 
considerable pomp and display, and prepared to 
carry the works by storm. A desperate assault 
was made and repulsed, but the French Governor 
saw that if another was made with such good 
spirit, his fort would be at the mercy of the be- 
siegers, with a chance, a likely chance,- of his men 
being put to the sword for defending a weak po- 
sition, the stern penalty of the laws of war. 

De Meneval decided that nothing but surrender 
would save their lives, for he saw that there was 
no chance of relief arriving from Quebec. Sir 
William received his surrender, destroyed the fort, 
broke down the palisades of the town, and com- 
pelled the inhabitants to take the oath of allegiance 
to the King of England. One of his officers he 
made governor of the town, and left a small 
garrison in the place. 

Sir William now sailed back to Boston in 
triumph, receiving the submission of the French 
seacoast towns on the way. The whole province of 
Acadia came under the authority of the English 
Crown, and remained so until the Peace of Rys- 
wick gave it back to France six or seven years 
later. The booty from Port Royal paid for the 
expedition and left a considerable surplus. The 
French Governor and his troops were taken pris- 
oners to Boston. After a while they were sent 
back, some to France, others to French possessions 
in the West Indies. 

Elated with their victory, the colonists wished, 
under Sir William's leadership, to strike a mortal 
blow at the French power in America, and sweep 
94 



SIR WILLIAM PHIPS 

the lilies forever from the American continent. The 
plan was made to send a fleet and army up the St. 
Lawrence and capture Quebec. 

A fleet of forty-two ships was collected, and over 
two thousand men mustered for the expedition. 
They had no pilots who knew the St Lawrence, 
nor a sufficient supply of ammunition, but neverthe- 
less the expedition set sail in high spirits. An 
army was also to go up Lake Champlain from 
Connecticut and New York, and attack Montreal 
in order to divide the attention of the French and 
keep reinforcements from Quebec. This latter 
expedition was a failure, and Sir William had to 
depend on his forces alone. The siege of Quebec 
was a picturesque afi^air, in which the troops 
showed the most distinguished bravery, but their 
ammunition ran short, and defeat was inevitable. 
Sir William had bombarded the city to no effect, 
the balls bounding back into the water from the 
thick stone w'alls of the houses of the "Lower 
Town." 

The return trip was even "more disastrous than 
the voyage out." A great storm arose, and the 
fleet became separated. "One vessel was never 
heard of after the separation; another was 
wrecked, though the crew was saved; and the 
third, a fire ship, was burnt at sea. Four ships 
were blown so far from the coast that they did not 
reach Boston for five or six weeks after the arrival 
of Sir William, when they had been given up for 
lost." 

After the failure of the expedition against Que- 
bec, the finances of the Bay Colony were in a de- 
plorable condition. Sir William, feeling that per- 
haps some blame for the failure might be laid at his 
door, gave liberally from his private fortune to 
sustain the public credit, but even then notes of the 
face value of a pound only passed in trade for a 
95 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

few shillings. The people were still in a state of 
unrest, as their old charter had not been restored 
to them as they had hoped it would. In consequence, 
the government of the colony was unsettled, and the 
value of any notes or money issued was affected. 
The Indians to the eastward came in and asked for 
peace, and a treaty was signed. Phips now saw 
that there was no more chance at present to dis- 
tinguish himself in the public service in that direc- 
tion, and so he determined to go to England and 
interest the King in a new project to drive the 
French from Canada. He found the King too busy 
with his war in Holland to take much interest, and 
the plan had to be given up. 

The famous Increase Mather was now in London, 
and he secured the interest of Sir William in his de- 
sign for securing a new charter for their colony. 
The new charter was secured, but it was far from 
being the instrument the two petitioners had hoped 
for, Mather saying at one time he would rather die 
than accept it. Mather now recommended to the 
Council that Sir William Phips be appointed the 
new governor under the charter. After a short 
delay he was commissioned, with the title of Cap- 
tain-General and Governor-in-Chief of the Province 
of Massachusetts Bay, in New England, and also 
Captain-General of the colonies of Connecticut and 
Rhode Island. 

The witchcraft delusion had been at its height 
while Sir William had been absent in England, and 
hundreds of innocent people were thrown into pris- 
on and a number executed. When Sir William ar- 
rived in Boston, he found the jails crowded with 
accused persons. The story is told by one writer 
that "in Sir William's absence, his lady, I suppose 
on account of her name's being Mary (the same as 
the Queen's) was solicited for a favor in behalf 
of a woman committed by one of the judges, on 
96 



SIR WILLIAM PHIPS 

accusation of witchcraft, by a formal warrant under 
his hand and seal, and in close trial for the next 
assizes, then not far off. The good lady granted and 
signed a warrant for the said woman's discharge, 
which was obeyed by the keeper." Sir William 
issued an edict pardoning accused persons, and the 
delusion gradually subsided. 

Sir William's career as governor was stormy 
even for that day. He had frequent quarrels with 
officers and people, but always maintained a certain 
amount of popularity. On a charge made by his 
enemies, he was ordered by the King to come to 
England and explain certain acts of his administra- 
tion. Sir William triumphed, and received assur- 
ance of being restored to power, but this was never 
carried out. 

Phips took up again the idea of treasure-hunting, 
and laid his plans for finding a ship that had been 
cast away in the West Indies, but he was prevented 
from sailing by a severe illness, and in February, 
1695, he passed away. His body was interred with 
ceremony in the ancient church of St. Mary, Wool- 
noth, and one of the most active and picturesque 
figures in American colonial history was at rest. 

R. S. B. 




97 



BENYOWSKY 

OTHELLO'S narrative sums up, with singular 
exactness, the story of the strange career 
which we are now about to trace. The iiistory of 
the Count de Benyowsi^y is a tale 

"of most disastrous chances. 
Of moving accidents by flood and field. 
Of being taken by the insolent foe 
And sold to slavery." 
It is a tale which, as it tells 

"of his redemption thence, 
And portance in his travel's history," 

whirls the reader round the globe, through every 
kind of peril and adventure, through scenes that 
change at every instant like the aspects of a dream. 
It is this swift succession of events, so varied and 
so striking, that imparts to Benyowsky's story its 
peculiar color of romance. He is the Candide and 
the Monte Christo of real life. 

He was born in the year 1741 at Verbowa, the 
family estate in Hungary, was baptized by the 
names of Maurice Augustus, and, as the son of a 
magnate, was brought up at the court of Vienna. 
The fortunes of his early years were well adapted to 
call forth his character. His father was a general 
of the Emperor's Horse; and the boy, being des- 
tined for the same profession, received at fourteen 
the rank of lieutenant, marched against Prussia, 
and fought in four pitched battles before he was 
seventeen. While he was absent in Lithuania, his 
father died, and he became the Count de Benyow- 
98 



BENYOWSKY 

sky. But his brothers, during his absence, seized 
on his estate. He instantly flew home, raised and 
armed a party of -his vassals, and drove off the 
birds of prey. But the interloping heirs had friends 
at court. He was accused as a rebel and a rioter. 
His castle and domains were taken from him by the 
State and given over to the clutch of the usurpers. 
In anger and disgust he turned his back upon his 
country, and having a desire to study seamanship, 
repaired to Amsterdam, and thence to Plymouth. 
There he found time to learn, not only how to sail 
a ship, but how to play a game of chess, and how 
to twang the harp. 

He then resolved to see the world; but as he 
was about to step on board a vessel bound for the 
West Indies, the States of Poland sent him an 
appeal to join their confederation against Russia. 
His bold, restless, and adventurous spirit leaped 
at the proposal. He crossed to Warsaw, took the 
oaths, and held himself in instant readiness for 
action. But before he was required to draw his 
sword he chanced to fall into a fever, while staying 
at the house of a gentleman of Zips named Hensky, 
was nursed back into health by his host's three 
daughters, fell in love with one of them, and mar- 
ried her. The honeymoon was scarcely over when 
he was summoned by the States to Cracow, which 
a Russian force was marching to besiege. With- 
out venturing to tell his bride where he was going, 
he rode away upon that strange enterprise which 
was destined to prove fruitful of so many strange 
vicissitudes. 

Benj'owsky was now twenty-seven ; a soldier and 
a sailor, master of a handsome face and figure, a 
constitution of iron, a manner which, according to 
occasion, could sway the minds of men or steal 
away the hearts of women, a ready wit, a tongue 
which spoke six languages with equal ease, a spirit 
99 

L or c 



HlhlORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

to which peril and adventure were as the breath of 
life. Such a man was likely to turn out a danger- 
ous enemy. And so the Russians were to find. 

He arrived at Cracow just as Count Parrin, with 
the Russian force, appeared before the walls. He 
was at once appointed colonel-general of the cav- 
alry; and speedily his troop of horse became a name 
of terror. Provisions from the first were scarce, 
and soon ran very low. Benyowsky dashed out of 
the town, stormed and took the fort of Landscron, 
and fought his way again into the city with thirty 
prisoners, a herd of oxen, and sixty baggage- 
wagons heaped with grain. The Russians, stung 
with rage, drew close their lines of siege. In vain. 
Benyowsky, with his troop, stole out at dead of 
night, swam across the Vistula, gained the open 
country, collected wagons in the villages, and loaded 
them with spoil. The point was then to lodge them 
in the town. It was three o'clock at night, and a 
dim moon was rising. Benyowsky placed the con- 
voy with a party under Baron de Kluscusky, set 
himself at the head of the remainder, and dashed 
upon the camp. The Russians, as he expected, 
flew forth like angry hornets. His charge was 
beaten off, half his little band were killed or taken, 
and he himself was cut down from his saddle, 
wounded in two places, and secured. But mean- 
time the Baron had slipped softly through the lines, 
and the wagons were all safe within the city. 

Benyowsky was ransomed for a thousand pounds 
— a disastrous bargain for the Russians — and re- 
turned into the town. When next he issued forth, 
he was alone and in disguise; but six hundred 
troopers were prepared to join him at a given sig- 
nal. He made his way to Lublau Castle, beguiled 
the governor with a glib pretext, and looked about 
him at his leisure. His plans for seizing on the fort 
were ready, his six hundred men were on the march, 
100 



BENYOWSKY 

when their commander let the secret slip within the 
hearing of a spy. The spy flew with the tidings 
to the governor, Benyowsky was instantly made 
captive, and sent in irons to the Russian general. 

A band of his own troops released him on the 
road. At the head of these he set himself to scour 
the country, his ranks swelling as he went. The 
Russians, in reprisal, put a price upon his head, 
and sent out a party to secure him, dead or living. 
Benyowsky kept his scouts on the alert, concealed 
his infantry in a wood beside the road near Sokul, 
and himself lay watching with his troopers oppo- 
site, behind a little hill. All one day and half the 
night he lay in ambush. At length, in the grey 
light of morning, the scouts came rushing in. The 
enemy, three thousand men, were marching down the 
road. Benyowsky watched his moment, darted out 
of his retreat, and killed or captured the whole 
party. 

At last a troop of Cossacks came upon him by 
surprise at Szuka. They had with them a howitzer, 
stuffed to the muzzle with old iron, stones, and 
rubbish. This piece was fired off in the skirmish, 
and Benyowsky was struck down by the hail of 
missies. Stunned, bruised and bleeding from no 
less than seventeen wounds, he was seized by the 
exultant enemy, and carried off in chains. And 
then began his tribulations. 

Wounded as he was, no surgeon was allowed 
him. He was fed on bread and water; he was 
forced to march all day in heavy chains. His 
guards at first were bound for Kiov; but believ- 
ing when they reached Polone that their prisoner 
was dying, they were obliged to leave him in the 
hospital. As soon as he began to mend his chains 
were once more fastened on him, and he was con- 
ducted to the dungeon of the city fortress. 

The dungeon was a den, far underneath the 
101 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

ground, where eighty captives were cooped up to- 
gether. No ray of light could penetrate the dark- 
ness; sighs, .groans, the noise of clanking chains 
alone disturbed the silence. The den was never 
cleaned; the foul air cherished pestilence; and in 
one corner stood a pile of cor])ses, which grew 
larger day by day. Within this fetid hole, Benyow- 
sky wore away three weeks of living death. 

On the twenty-second day of his captivity the 
survivors, leaving thirty-five dead bodies in the den, 
were led forth into the Place of Arms, where 
several hundred prisoners were assembled. These 
were chained in rows together, and started on the 
march to Kiov. The hardships of that journey were 
such as would have tasked a strong man in full 
health; and Benyowsky was half-famished, wounded, 
limping on a crutch. The roads were steep and 
rugged; but the prisoners were beaten forward by 
the guards like cattle. To increase their miseries, 
the commander of the guards turned out a greedy 
thief, who stole the prisoners' bread, sold it, and 
put the proceeds in his pocket. At nightfall, he 
accepted from the villagers, among whose huts the 
prisoners ought to have been quartered, petty bribes 
to leave them imdisturbed; and Benyowsky and his 
fellow-captives were lodged on the bare ground and 
left to shiver in the snow and rain. The result was 
such as might have been expected. The road was 
strewn with dead and dying. Out of near nine 
hundred prisoners who left Polone, less than a hun- 
dred and fifty scarecrows crawled, half-alive, into 
the gates of Kiov. 

Benyowsky, on arriving, fell into a fever, and for 
ten days was raving in delirium. The moment he 
began to mend he was sent forward to Cazan. 
There he was lodged in the house of a goldsmith 
named Vendischor, and found himself at liberty to 
move about the town, to pay visits and make friends. 
102 



BKNYOWSKY 

A bold idea struck him; he would organize in 
secret all the exiles in the cit}^ attack the governor 
and the garrison, and regain his freedom vi et 
armis. He went instantly to work. One by one 
conspirators were sworn; the design grew, and 
promised well; when one night two of the in- 
triguers quarreled. One of them went straight to 
the governor, revealed the whole plot, and named 
Benyowsky as the leading spirit. 

The next night, about eleven o'clock, as Benyow- 
sky was just stepping into bed, a loud knocking was 
heard at the street-door. He lighted a candle, 
wrapped himself in a dressing-gown, went down- 
stairs, and opened the door. An officer with 
twenty soldiers stood without, who had been sent to 
take him. A curious freak of fortune saved him. 
The officer, who did not know his features, took 
him for a servant, and demanded whether the Count 
de Benyowsky were within; then, without waiting 
for an answer, he snatched the candle from his 
hand, and darted up the stairs to seize his prisoner. 
Benyowsky, left alone below, took in the situation 
at a glance. He drew his dressing-gown about him, 
and slipped away into the night. 

He hastened to the house of Major Wynblath, 
one of the companions of his plot. The two resolved 
to risk their lives on a bold venture. They stole 
out of the town, procured horses at the nearest 
village, and the sentries believing they were offi- 
cers with dispatches from the governor of Cazan, 
they got safely to St. Petersburg. There they 
found a skipper due to sail next day for Holland. 
They booked a passage with him for five hundred 
ducats, and arranged to meet at midnight on the 
bridge across the Neva. 

Midnight came; the fugitives were at the bridge. 
The skipper was behind his time; but in a few 
minute^ they descried him coming. He appeared to 
103 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

be alone; but as he stepped up to Benyowsky, 
twenty soldiers started out of the darkness at his 
back, knocked them both down, and made them fast. 
The honest skipper had been seized with a sus- 
picion, and had sold his passengers for a round 
sum to the police. 

Benyowsky, separated from the Major, was con- 
ducted to the fortress and locked up in a solitary 
cell. The place might have been a dungeon in the 
Tower of Famine. For three days not a soul came 
near him. He had neither bread nor water. When 
at the close of the third day a jailer entered with a 
pitcher and a crust, he found a gaunt-eyed specter, 
weaker than a child. 

Benyowsky was dragged before the Council, 
questioned, and again remanded to his cell. But 
his fate was apparently sealed. Ten days later, in 
the dead of night, an officer with seven soldiers 
opened the cell-door, clothed him in a dress of 
sheep-skins, loaded him again with chains, and led 
him forth. Outside the fort, a two-horsed sledge 
wajs waiting. Benyowsky was placed beside it, a 
soldier took the seat beside him, and the horses in- 
stantly flew forward into the darkness of the night. 
By the tinkling noise of sledge-bells on the road 
behind him, the Count judged that he was not 
alone; and when day dnwned he discovered that 
the train was one of sixteen sledges, which were 
carrying six prisoners, under a guard of Cossacks, 
across the vast Siberian regions of eternal ice to 
lifelong exile in Kamchatka. 

The distance from St. Petersburff to Kamchatka 
is, as the crow flies, full four thousand miles. The 
journey through that arctic wilderness was, at the 
best of times, a task of many months and of the 
bitterest privations. Sometimes the exiles were so 
happy as to pass a night among a nest of Tartar 
huts ; but in general they encamped among the snow. 
104 



BENYOWSKY 

When provisions were in plenty, they broke their 
fast on fish or horse-flesh, with a pitcher of mare's 
milk; but more than once they were reduced to 
birch-bark sopped in water, while the horses fed on 
moss. At first their course lay over boundless level 
plains of snow, broken here and there by grim low 
hills and swept by icy whirlwinds, over which they 
passed in sledges, sometimes drawn by horses, some- 
times flying at the heels of elks. Then the road ran 
through gigantic woods and over mountains where 
no sledge could travel, and where they tramped on 
foot, frozen with the cold and dropping with fatigue. 
On one such mountain-top two of the conductors 
sank down beside the way, and never rose again. 
Thence they moved through rugged passes where 
the sledges could be only drawn by dogs. To drive 
a team of dogs requires much practice; and so 
Benyowsky, who knew nothing of the art, dis- 
covered to his cost. More than once, sledge, team, 
and driver went rolling down a precipice together 
from a height of sixty feet. Luckily, the snow was 
soft and yielding; and man and beast were hoisted 
out again, scared, bruised, and shaken, but with no 
broken bones. 

At last, in spite of every misadventure, they 
arrived at Okotsk on the coast, whence they were 
to cross by ship to the peninsula of Kamchatka. 
They embarked; the ship weighed anchor; but 
scarcely was she out of sight of land when the 
captain and the officers broached a brandy-cask, 
and speedily all were drunk. The mate was in the 
hold in irons; and in this position of affairs a storm 
sprang up, which raged with increasing fury every 
hour. The crew were helpless; no officer was cap- 
able of giving orders. In the middle of the night 
the mainmast sprung. The captain, roused by the 
uproar, came tumbling up the hatchway from his 
drunken sleep, was struck by the falling wreck of 
105 



HISTORIC i)p:p:ds of danger and daring 

spars, knocked down the steps, and broke his arm. 
The shock aroused him to a sense of danger; and, 
finding that the Count could navigate the ship, 
he gave him charge of her, and went below. All 
that night Benyowsky kept the ship before the 
wind. Next morning the gale slackened. A stay 
was stretched from the mast's stump to the bow- 
sprit; a foresail was rigged up; and Benyowsky, 
finding the ship manageable, began to think of at- 
tempting to escape. He first endeavored, but in 
vain, to gain the crew. Then he placed a lump of 
iron on the binnacle, which magnetized the com- 
pass, so that the ship appeared to sail due east, 
when in reality she was sailing south. How this 
device might have succeeded is not known; for un- 
luckily a gale of wind sprang up from the south- 
west, which drove the ship directly to Kamchatka, 
and into the harbor of the river Bolsha. 

The prisoners were disembarked, and taken up 
the river in a boat to the town of Bolsoretskoy 
Ostrogg. Here they were conducted to the fortress, 
and the rules of their life in exile were explained to 
them. They would be set at liberty, supplied with 
a musket, a lance, powder, lead, an axe, knives, 
tools for building cabins, and provisions for three 
days, after which they were expected to maintain 
themselves by hunting, in the dreary wastes, er- 
mines, wolverines, and sables. Every exile was com- 
pelled to report himself once daily to the guards; 
and disobedience to a guard was punished by 
starvation. 

The little village of the exiles was situated at a 
league's distance from the town. It consisted of 
eight cabins, in which lived fifty men and women. 
Thither the Count and his companions were now 
led, and were received into the huts of their fellow- 
exiles until they should be able to build cabins for 
themselves. Benyowsky was quartered in the hut 
106 



BENYOWSKY 

of M. Crustiew — a person of much influence among 
the exiles. That evening, as they sat before the 
fire, Benyowsky began to sound his new companion 
on the chances of escape. Crustiew had a few books 
in his cabin, among which was Anson's Voyages. 
It was natural that such a book should have sug- 
gested the sole project of escape which in truth 
was possible. To attempt to cross the awful wild- 
erness through which they had come thither was 
quite hopeless. But Crustiew believed that it might 
be possible to seize a ship, and to escape by sea. 
Benyowsky listened; and from that moment the de- 
sign was never absent from his mind. 

Next day the governor, whose name was Xilow, 
sent for Benyowsky to the fort. An agreeable 
surprise awaited him. Nilow, hearing that the 
Count spoke several languages, desired to appoint 
him tutor to his family, which consisted of three 
daughters and a son; Benyowsky being still to 
occupy his cabin in the exile village, but to be 
exempted from the duties of his comrades, and to 
receive the pay and rations of a soldier. 

The Count accepted the proposal with great 
willingness. But the scheme had a result which 
neither he nor Nilow had foreseen. Next day he 
met his pupils, gave them their first lesson, and 
afterwards amused them with an account of his 
adventures. The youngest girl, Aphanasia, a lovely 
damsel of sixteen, listened as Desdemona listened 
to Othello, and with a like result. Aphanasia fell 
in love with Benyowsky. 

Chance, as it happened, was to throw them still 
more intimately together. Aphanasia's mother 
desired her to learn music, and Benyowsky under- 
took to be her music-master. Unfortunately, the 
Count could only play the harp; and no harp 
existed in the whole peninsula. Benyowsky, in this 
predicament, volunteered to make one. He formed 
107 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

the frame of wood, twisted strings of deers' gut, 
and produced an instrument which, although in his 
own phrase "not very lively," enchanted all the 
people at the fort, and Aphanasia most of all. She 
and her harp thenceforward were inseparable com- 
panions. 

Nilow, a drunken, brutal despot, had betrothed 
his daughter to a rich Kuzina, as drunken and as 
brutal as himself. Benyowsky heard this story. 
He could not wed her himself, being already mar- 
ried, but he determii.^d, if it were possible, to 
rescue her from the Kuzina, whom she detested. 

Meantime, he chanced to make acquaintance with 
a Hetman of the Cossacks named Kolassow, who 
had lost large sums in playing chess for wagers. 
Discovering that Benyowsky was a skilful player, 
Kolassow matched the Count against two wealthy 
merchants, Casarinow and Csulosinkow. Benyowsky 
was to play a set of fifty games against whatever 
champions these two might choose to bring. The 
games were played; the stakes were heavy, and 
Benyowsky and his backer swept in several thou- 
sand roubles. But this gambling episode was one 
which very nearly cost the Count his life. 

Csulosinkow took his losses badly. One night he 
lay in wait, together with his cousin, as Benyow- 
sky was returning to his cabin. The pair sprang 
out upon him, armed with knives and bludgeons. 
Benyowsky had no weapon but a stick, and at the 
first onset he M^as badly wounded. With one blow 
he split the cousin's skull; and Csulosinkow there- 
upon fell on his knees and roared for mercy. Ben- 
yowsky let him go, — and himself crawled home- 
ward to his cabin, where during the next ten days 
he lay in bed. The cousin died. 

Casarinow took a stealthier method of revenge. 
On New Year's Day the prisoners arranged a 
humble festival among themselves. Casarinow sent 
108 



BENYOWSKY 

Ihem, on the occasion, a present of some sugar, 
which the exiles put into their tea. The sugar had 
been poisoned; and in a few minutes the whole 
company were rolling on the ground in convulsions. 
Benyowsky, who had only sipped his cup, found 
himself quaking like a man with ague. Copious 
draughts of whale oil gave the sufferers relief. 
But one of them, who had drunk largely, died on 
the spot, while another recovered only from the 
jaws of death. 

The sugar was suspected. A sample, wrapped 
up in a piece of fish, was tested on a dog and on a 
cat. The animals went into strong convulsions, 
and in ten minutes both were dead. 

Next morning Benyowsky called upon the gov- 
ernor, and accused Casarinow of the crime. Nilow 
was at first incredulous; but Benyowsky hit upon 
a simple proof. Casarinow was invited to drink 
tea at the fort that afternoon. He came; the tea 
was brought, and Casarinow was about to put it 
to his lips when Nilow mentioned, with a careless 
air, that he had received his sugar from the exiles, 
who had passed it to him as a New Year's gift. 
Instantly Casarinow turned as white as ashes. 
"Why, Casarinow," said his host, "you look ill. 
But drink; the tea will cure you." The wretched 
man put down the cup, and turned away. His guilt 
was manifest. Nilow made a sign, the guards rushed 
in, and he was seized and dragged away to prison. 

This adventure was well over. But another 
cause of trouble was at hand. One of Benyowsky's 
fellow-exiles, Hippolitus Stephanow, had caught a 
glimpse of Aphanasia, and had lost his heart. 
With envy, he saw the Count rise into favor. 
Thenceforth, to plot and cavil against Benyowsky 
became the business of his life. He began by in- 
sulting him among the exiles; then he challenged 
him to fight. The Count accepted. The assailants 
109 . 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

met with broadswords, and Stephanow was speedily 
disarmed. Benyowsky spared his life; and Ste- 
phanow broke into a flood of gratitude, which 
afterwards proved to be worth nothing. 

While these events were passing, the Count's 
resolution to escape had never for an instant fal- 
tered. He had formed, in secret, a council of the 
exiles, of which he was himself the ruling spirit. 
He was waiting only for an opportunity to play a 
desperate game; and at last the chance arrived. 

A captain of the name of Csurin was in harbor 
with his ship, with which he was engaged to sail to 
Okotsk. But he durst not sail to Okotsk, where a 
process was abroad against him on a charge of 
having mutinied two years before. In this predic- 
ament Benyowsky gained his ear. It was not diffi- 
cult to persuade a desperate man to share the lot of 
men as desperate as himself. It was agreed to man 
the ship with Benyowsky's comrades, and to escape, 
if possible, together in the darkness of the night. 

The risks of the attempt were great. And 
everything depended on success. If the attempt 
failed, the adventurers would wear away the rem- 
nant of their lives in chains and dungeons, and the 
last state of their captivity would be bitterer than 
the first. Yet a chance so golden could on no ac- 
count be missed. Benyowsky resolved to get on 
board, if it were possible, without awakening sus- 
picion — but, if he were discovered and opposed, to 
fight to his last man, and either reach the ship or 
perish. 

Preparations for the attempt at once began. But 
before everything was ready an incident occurred 
which nearly ruined all. By some means, the gov- 
ernor's suspicions were aroused, and he was prepar- 
ing to arrest the conspirators in a body. The Count 
heard of this and instantly made ready; the exiles 
were assembled, arms in hand, in Benyowsky's 
110 



BENYOWSKY 

cabin. It was a desperate enterprise; and the 
hearts of the little band beat high within them, as 
they awaited the beginning of events which were 
to end in death or freedom. 

The day — the ;20th of April — was closing into 
dusk, when a corporal with four grenadiers was 
reported to be approaching from the town. The 
corporal came up to the cabin door and called on 
Benyowsky to attend him to the fortress. The 
Count thrust his head out of a window and in a 
pleasant voice invited the corporal to step in. The 
corporal loved a glass of wine. He entered. In- 
stantly the door was shut, four pistols were pre- 
sented, and he was bidden, on his life, to summon 
his soldiers one by one into the hut. As they 
entered, they were seized and bound; and in three 
minutes all five men were lying safely in the cellar. 

Four hours passed; it was nine o'clock, and 
almost dark, when a strong body of soldiery, armed 
with a cannon, was announced to be approaching. 
A single cannon-shot would have sufficed to blow 
the hut and all within it into atoms. Benyowsky 
ottlled upon his comrades. Filled with the fire of 
men whose lives were in their hands, they rushed 
forth upon the foe. The soldiers, panic-striken at 
that furious onset, left the cannon and ran like 
hares into the neighboring woods. 

Dragging the cannon with them, the conspirators 
stole forward to the fort. The sentinel, seeing in 
the dusky light a troop approaching with a cannon, 
imagined that his own companions were returning. 
He gave the challenge; but Benyowsky, with a 
pistol in his hand, bade a prisoner return the coun- 
terword. The man obeyed; the sentinel let fall the 
drawbridge; the exiles rushed across it, blew down 
the grating with a petard, and burst into the fort. 

Then the fight was fierce and brief. Nilow, 
refusing to accept his life, was in the act of firing 
111 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

his pistol at Benyowsky, when he was struck down. 
'J'he guards, of whom twelve only had been left 
within, were killed or taken. And the fort was in 
the hands of the exiles. 

By this time all the town was rising — at least 
three hundred Cossacks were in arms; and soon a 
storming-party, with Kolassow at its head, appeared 
before the gate. But the ramparts were alive with 
fiery eyes, the bridge was up, the castle-guns were 
roaring. Kolassow was compelled to change his 
tactics; he drew off beyond the reach of shot, to 
the heights which overlooked the castle, and pre- 
pared to starve them out. 

But the Count was ready with a counter-scheme. 
No sooner was Kolassow gone, than he sent a band 
of men into the streets to gather the women and 
children together into the church. Nearly a thou- 
sand were soon mustered, and locked in. Chairs, 
tables, railings, doors, were broken up and piled 
at the four corners of the building. Three women 
and twelve girls were then despatched as envoys 
to Kolassow, announcing that unless the Cossacks 
instantly laid down their arms, the building would 
be set in flames and every soul within it perish. 

Benyowsky, who had no real intention of per- 
petrating such an atrocity, had relied on the bare 
threat to prove effectual; but time passed, and still 
Kolassow gave no sign. Benyowsky bade a pile 
be kindled. In an instant, as the flames shot up, 
the heights became alive with handkerchiefs and 
white-fluttering flags of truce. Soon fifty Cossacks, 
fiery-hot with haste, came racing in advance, cry- 
ing aloud that all the troups were following, and 
had laid down their arms. The aspect of the flames 
— mere idle menace as it was — had wrought like 
magic. The Count received into the fort as host- 
ages fifty-two of the chief townsmen, and ordered 
the church-doors to be thrown open. 
112 



BENYOWSKY 

And now Benyowsky was master, not only of tlie 
castle, but of the town itself. He was able to com- 
plete at ease his preparations for the voyage. He 
had, during the assault, received a wound in the 
right leg; and he was forced to lie in idleness for 
several days. 

It was the 11th of May, 1771, when the exiles, 
ninety-six in all, embarked on board of the St. 
Peter and St. Paul. Every other ship in the harbor, 
which might be used in the pursuit, was set in 
flames. The hostages were sent ashore, the flag of 
Poland ran up to the peak; and a salute of twenty 
cannon, thundering from the port-holes, proclaimed 
that the bold exiles had gained their freedom! 

And then began "the moving accidents" of sea. 
The ship stood out of harbor among masses of 
rough ice, through which at times a way was only 
to be forced by firing cannon at the floes. At 
night, the deck was covered with a sheet of ice two 
inches thick; and huge fires, flaming round the 
masts, were required to thaw the sails, wliich froze 
as stiff as iron. In spite of all precautions the 
vessel, battered by the floating bergs, sprang a leak; 
the pumps had to be kept going day and night; and 
before the rift was stopped the crew were dropping 
with fatigue. Then the water-barrels froze and 
burst; Benyowsky was compelled to limit the sup- 
ply; and thereon Stephanow, still ripe for mischief, 
stirred up certain of the crew to mutiny. These 
men, in search of water, tapped a brandy-barrel 
by mistake, drank themselves into a frenzy, and 
staved in every water-cask but two. When, next 
day, the mutineers grew sober and realized their 
folly they turned on Stephanow in fury, and would 
have hanged him from the yards. The Count, how- 
ever, once more saved the life of his insidious 
enemy; and Stephanow was made a scullion. 

But the mischief was achieved. The ship was 
113 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

nearing warmer regions. No land was in sight; 
and food, as well as water, ran so low that a little 
bread made out of salted fish ground into powder 
was all that could be served out daily. Famine 
forced the crew to strange expedients. At one 
time beaver-skins, chopped into mince-meat, were 
stewing in whale oil; at another, twenty pairs of 
boots were boiling in the pot. On the 14th of 
July — nine weeks after their departure — the ship 
was still a fortnight from Japan; and the water 
was all gone. j 

And now, for the first time in his career, Ben- I 
yowsky gave up everj^thing for lost. Ill health, 
following on his wound, had shaken him; and he 
believed that he was dying. He resigned his office 
as commander, gave some last instructions, crawled 
into his hammock, and lay down to wait for death. 

But in the middle of that night the Count's dog 
Nestor was seen standing on the forecastle, thrust- 
ing out his nose at the horizon, and barking like a 
dog gone frantic. Nestor was a prophet. When 
day dawned, a line of land was lying like a cloud 
on the horizon. It was a desert island, rich in fruit 
and game. In a few hours the crew were shooting 
goats and boars, breaking open cocoa-nuts, and 
eating delicious fruits. 

The water-casks were filled; the ship's larder 
was replenished; and the sails were once more 
given to the wind. A fortnight later the ship 
sailed safely into Usilpatchar Bay; and the voy- 
agers found themselves surrounded by almond eyes 
and yellow faces, gaudy fluttering dresses and twirl- 
ing parasols. Benyowsky waited on the king. He 
found that potentate seated on a yellow sofa in a 
rich saloon, apparelled in a robe of blue and green, 
and girdled with a yellow girdle. The king re- 
ceived the Count with great hospitality. The visitor 
was invited to a royal feast; and Benyowsky tried, 
lU 



BENVOWSKY 

but tried in vain, to eat a bird's nest with a pair of 
chop-sticks. In return, he taught the monarch how 
to use a musket, with which his majesty, to his 
infinite delight, killed a horse at the first shot. The 
king presented Benyowsky with a jeweled sabre, a 
string of pearls, and a box of gold and gems. 

The ship revictualed; and the voyagers stood 
away for China. Twelve days later they touched 
in passing at the island of Usmay Ligon. Ben- 
yowsky put to land the ship's boat. A high sea 
was running; the boat was swamped, and the crew 
were swept into the surf. The Count was dashed 
upon a rock, and was with difficulty dragged by his 
companions to the shore, where for some time he 
lay senseless, and to all appearance dead. But at 
length his eyes opened, and he returned to life. 

The natives of the island had been civilized to 
some extent by a Jesuit missionary named Ignatio 
Salis, who had lived long among them. Ignatio was 
now dead; but his memory was still held in the 
profoundest reverence. His breviary, borne upon 
a carpet, was regarded as a talisman; his ashes 
rested in an earthen urn upon the altar of the na- 
tion's savage temple. The present chieftain was a 
captain of Tonquin who had been Ignatio's fellow- 
worker. This man, whose name was Nicolo, re- 
ceived the voyagers with great kindliness, placed 
huts at their disposal while the ship was undergo- 
ing some repairs, and did his best, indeed, to per- 
suade -Benyowsky to settle with him on the island. 
But for his wife at home Benyowsky might have 
yielded. He replied, in fact, that he must first see 
Europe, but that very probably he might then 
return. 

Again the ship set sail. Two days afterwards 

she touched Formosa. An exploring party landed, 

and came across a tribe of natives, headed .by a 

Spaniard, Don Hieronimo Pacheco, whose appear- 

115 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

ance must have strikingly resembled Robinson 
Crusoe's in his dress of skins. This man's history 
was itself a dark and strange romance. He had 
been a Grandee of Manila, had committed a crime, 
had fled in a small vessel manned by six of his own 
slaves, had landed at Formosa, and during the last 
seven years had been a savage chief. Don Hiero- 
nimo came on board the ship, and welcomed Ben- 
yowsky with great friendship. But meantime a 
party of the crew on land had come across a hostile 
tribe; and presently the ship's boat was seen re- 
turning from the shore with several of the crew 
stuck full of arrows, and three men dead or dying 
at the bottom. 

Benyowsky had not meant to tarry at the island. 
But the slaughter of their comrades roused the crew 
to fury. The Count and Don Hieronimo put their 
men together, descended on the hostile tribe, slew 
a vast number of them, and burnt their village to 
the ground. 

Prince Huapo, one of the greatest chieftains of 
the country, seeing this achievement, offered Ben- 
yowsky a rich prize to march against his enemy. 
Prince Hapuosingo. The Count accepted this pro- 
posal, marched with forty men upon the nest of 
wigwams which Ilapuasingo called his city, seized 
him as he was hiding, like Achilles, in his tent, 
and brought him back a captive. Huapo, in his 
gratitude, presented Benyowsky with silver, gold, 
and jewels. This barbaric treasure the Count shared 
among his followers. "A generous gift" — as he 
remarks in point — "is worth a thousand speeches, 
of whatever eloquence." 

Once more the sails were spread; and thence the 
ship made way without adventure. A few days 
later, on the morning of the 22d of September, she 
sailed safely into the harbor of Mecao. The escape 
was finally accomplished ; the voyage was at an end. 
116 



BENYOWSKY 

Benyowsky claimed protection from the flag of 
France, and at once obtained a passage on the 
Dauphin. But before the exiles separated a mis- 
fortune fell upon him. Stephanow, who had taken 
service with the Dutch Company, broke open the 
Count's chest, robbed him of all the presents and 
mementos which he had gathered on the voyage, 
sold them for a trifle to a Jew, and disap- 
peared. 

Benyowsky now sailed for France. He landed, 
waited on Due d'Aiguillon, and was at once invited 
to enter the French service. The Count accepted 
the proposal, and sent off" an equerry to bring his 
wife from Zips. Through all his perils and advent- 
ures — in the battle against Russia, in the den at 
Cazan, with the snow-surrounded sledges, among 
the exiles' cabins, in the lands of savage tribes — 
her form had ever been a pole-star, cheering, guid- 
ing, glittering before his inner eye. She came with 
all the speed that could be urged; and what that 
meeting was must be imagined. 

The Due d'Aiguillon, at the King's desire, pro- 
posed that Benyowsky should proceed to Mada- 
gascar, with the design of planting on the island a 
French settlement. No proposal could have better 
suited his adventurous spirit. A ship was fitted 
out; three hundred men were sent on board; and 
on the 23d of March, 1773, the Count, together 
with his wife, set sail from Europe. It was the 
last and strangest venture of his life. 

The ship first anchored at the Isle of France. 
The Count was armed with letters to the governor, 
who was charged to aid the expedition with all 
requisite supplies. But Benyowsky, on handing in 
his papers, found himself received with howls of 
rage. The merchants of the Isle looked jealously 
on the projected settlement, which threatened to 
interfere with their own trade. Impediments of 
117 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

every kind were brought against him; and at length 
he was compelled to sail for Madagascar, without 
the stores he had expected, and with faint prospect 
of receiving more. 

He landed at Louisburg in Antimaroa. And his 
calamities at once began. That night, the native 
chieftains, twenty-eight in number, came, attended 
by two thousand black retainers, to listen to his 
scheme. To this assembly Benyowsky painted in 
a speech of glowing colors the profit to be gathered 
from a trade with France. The dusky kings ap- 
peared to acquiesce, and dispersed. But next 
day all was changed. A chief named Siloulout 
demanded to confer with Benyowsky in a neighbor- 
ing wood. The Count sent forward spies; three 
hundred men were lying in an ambush, ready to 
murder him. Benyowsky, with a troop, burst sud- 
denly upon them, and sent them flying to the winds. 
Next day the river was dyed red with the heavy- 
fruited branches of the tanguin tree, which turned 
the water into deadly poison. Benyowsky cleared 
the river, burnt down all the tanguins in the dis- 
trict, and once more cheated his insidious foes. 
But thenceforward ceaseless vigilance was needed; 
and there were dangers against which no vigilance 
could avail. The climate, at that season, was, to 
Europeans, almost as perilous as a poisoned stream. 
A little village of log-huts was built with toil, to- 
gether with a fortress and a hospital. The hospital 
was soon required. The air was charged with fever, 
the stores were poor, the stock of drugs was scanty, 
and the colonists, by some strange oversight, had 
with them no physician. At one time Benyowsky 
and his wife, both stricken by miasma, were lying 
at death's door together. From the Isle of France 
no aid could be obtained. The recruits sent out, 
ostensibly to swell the little force, turned out to 
be thieves and cut-throats from the dungeons, or 
118 



BENYOWSKY 

dying men out of the hospital. And in this position 
the tiny colony was compelled to keep perpetually 
alert against the Saphirobai and the Seclaves, two 
tribes which every day grew bolder and more 
insolent. 

For several months the struggle was kept up with 
heroic resolution. But disasters thickened; the 
natives could be kept at bay no longer; the com- 
plete destruction of the settlers seemed inevitably 
at hand; when an event, unexcelled in strangeness 
among all the visions of romance, in an instant 
changed the scene as by enchantment. 

Benyowsky had brought over from the Isle of 
France an old, half-crazy negress called Susanna, 
who had been sold in childhood to the French. 
Among Susanna's fellow-captives had been the 
daughter of the Ampansacabe, the supreme king of 
Madagascar, Ramini Larizon. The race of Ramini 
were both seers and kings. They claimed to trace 
their descent from a kinsman of Mahomet, the 
Clreat Prophet; and their power over their sub- 
jects was absolute. Since the death of Larizon 
sixty-six years before, there had been no heir to 
take the rank and oflSce. His daughter, indeed, 
had, during her captivity, borne a son; but the 
boy had become lost to sight; and the great name, 
at which fifty thousand dusky worshippers had 
once hushed their breath, now seemed to have be- 
come extinct for ever. 

But now there came a marvel. The lost heir 
was rediscovered. By certain marks which could 
not be mistaken, Susanna, who had lived in serfdom 
with his mother, had recognized his person. A 
vision from on high, she said, impelled her to pro- 
claim the tidings. Raving like a prophetess in 
frenzy, she began to cry aloud a word which made 
the ears of the natives tingle. The lost heir was 
Benyowsky ! 

119 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

The strange hallucination spread like wildfire. 
The tribe of the Sambarives, to which the Ramini 
belonged, rose up in tumult. One of their chiefs, 
Ciewi by name, was instantly despatched, attended 
by two hundred tribesmen, to invite the Count to 
take possession of his ancestral throne; and Ben- 
yowsky, at the very moment of despair, saw him- 
self hailed king of fifty thousand savage warriors, 
every man of whom regarded him with an awe and 
reverence far stronger than the love of life. 

He fell in with their delusion, and instantly ac- 
cepted the position. The French had, in his eyes, 
betrayed and wronged him. He sent in his resig- 
nation to the Service, took off his uniform, and put 
on the skins and feathers of a savage king. The 
ceremony of his installation must have been a 
truly striking scene. Thirty thousand warriors were 
drawn up in a circle, tribe by tribe, in the midst of 
a vast plain, having the women in the outer ring. 
Before each tribe an ox stood ready for the sacri- 
fice. Seven chiefs conducted Benyowsky from his 
pavilion to the plain; and as he came before them, 
the great multitude flung themselves together on 
their faces. The oxen were then slaughtered, the 
heads of spears were dipped in blood, and on these 
the warriors took the oath of loyalty by licking with 
their tongues the scarlet points. An aged chief 
placed in the new king's hand an assegai by way 
of scepter; and once again the vast assembly fell 
together on their faces, before the feet of the great 
white Ampansacabe. 

Nor was his wife without her dignity. That same 
evening, before the beginning of the dances which 
were to last all night, the women of the tribes swore 
fealty to Queen Benyowsky, to obey her in all quar- 
rels in which men had no concern. 

Such was the last strange change in Benyowsky's 
fortune. He had been a captive in the lands of 
120 



BENYOWSKY 

everlasting ice; he was now the sovereign of a 
kingdom where no snowflake ever fell. His power 
over his black subjects was supreme. It was for 
him to use it well. A scheme of great and wide 
beneficence arose before him. He resolved to civ- 
ilize his nation; to found, in his own right, a trade 
with Europe; to bring into the island farmers, 
carpenters and blacksmiths, who should teach his 
people how to build and plough. With these ob- 
jects, he resolved himself to visit Europe. His 
empire was committed to a council of the chiefs; 
a brig, the Belle Arthur, was obtained and fitted 
for the voyage; and amidst the tears and cries of 
the vast dusky throngs who followed with their 
eyes his fading sails, he put once more to sea. 

At this point the Count's own Memoirs, which 
thus far we have been following, break off. The 
brief remainder of the story must be gleaned from 
various sources. The broken pieces, set together, 
come to this — 

The ship reached Europe safely. But the Count 
could find no State prepared to aid him, at the risk 
of war with France. He then resolved to try 
America; and at Baltimore he made arrangements 
with a firm of merchants, who supplied him with a 
vessel, the Intrepid, of four hundred and fifty tons 
and thirty guns; in which, with a rich cargo, he 
spread his sails again for Madagascar. His faith- 
ful wife, who was in poor health, he was compelled 
to leave in Baltimore. She never saw his face 
again. 

Instantly on his arrival in his kingdom, he de- 
clared hostilities against the French. At the head 
of his black warriors, he first seized their store- 
house at Angoutci. He then set off, attended only 
by a hundred men, to storm their factory at Foul 
Point. But the French had there a ship with sixty 
troopers, of which he had received no warning. On 
121 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

the morning of the 23d of May, 1786, they landed, , 
nnd attacked him. 

The Count had barely time to throw up a redoubt, 
defended by two guns, when the enemy were upon 
him. The affair was over in a moment. He who 
had escaped alive out of so many perils had now 
reached his last. As the French rushed forward, 
firing in a volley, a musket-bullet struck Benyow- 
sky in the breast. He instantly sank back behind 
the rampart. His black troops, seeing their king 
fall, fled panic-stricken; and the French soldiers, 
bursting over the redoubt, seized his dead body by 
the hair, and dragged it forth into the open ground. 




192 



ANTHONY WAYNE 

AMONG the many brave patriots that fought 
their way to undying military renown during 
the American Revolution, none was more pictur- 
esque than General Anthony Wayne, the "Mad 
Anthony" of Stony Point, and a score of other 
well-fought and well-won fields. He was the Prince 
Rupert of the American forces. 

If a man comes of fighting stock, he is apt to 
make a good fighter himself when the time comes 
that his country needs him. Wayne's grandfather 
was a Yorkshireman, who moved from England to 
County Wicklow, Ireland. As a stanch Protest- 
ant, he espoused the cause of William of Orange 
when he came to win a throne in Britain. When 
William landed in Ireland, Grandfather Wayne was 
in command of a troop of dragoons, and distin- 
guished himself at the battle of the Boyne. In 1722 
he emigrated to Pennsylvania. His son, the father 
of the dashing Anthony, was a man of wealth and 
position. He owned 15,000 acres, was a member 
of the assembly, and, what was of more importance 
in those colonial days, a noted Indian fighter. An- 
thony Wayne, who was to win greater military 
fame than any of his ancestors, was born in the 
township of Eastown, Pennsylvania, on New Year's 
day, 1745. From his earliest childhood the stories 
he heard were of battle and siege in the wars with 
the French, and the outrages inflicted on the Eng- 
lish settlers by the Indians. Father and neighbors 
were repeatedly called out to repulse some inroad 
of the enemy, so that he was really bred up amid 
the alarms of war. 

123 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

The Indians, led by French officers, burned and 
massacred to within forty miles of Philadelphia, 
where many a good Quaker felt it necessary, while 
carrying on his peaceful meditations on brotherly 
love, carefully to tend to the priming of his recently 
purchased musket, and to keep his flints in order. 
Whole villages were laid waste; men, women, and 
children were butchered in cold blood. The troops 
sent against the French on the western frontier of 
the colony often passed through Waynesboro. 

Anthony was sent early to a school conducted by 
his uncle, and his scholarship at first was hardly 
sufficient to keep him there. He was constantly 
drilling his comrades, and putting them through the 
manual of arms. At ever}^ recess, conflicts, planned 
after those in the school histories, raged about the 
playground. They were not sham battles in the 
true sense of the word, for the good schoolmaster 
felt called upon to complain to the lad's father 
that Anthony's troops were supplied frequently with 
black eyes and bloody noses. He also wrote that, 
unless the youngster applied himself more dili- 
gently to his books, he would have to leave school. 
Wayne at this dire threat put himself manfully to 
work to learn his distasteful tasks. Nevertheless, 
in spare hours the shout of battle would be heard 
about the neighborhood, and the startled villagers 
would throw up their windows to see part of the 
town boys go whooping by as red Indians, while 
Anthony, as a doughty leader of colonial troops, 
charged boldly on the retreating ranks of the dis- 
comfited foe. These days showed that the boy had 
the making of a masterful and strong-willed man, 
for his influence over his schoolmates was such that 
he had but to suggest and they would follow. He 
was also master of Anthony, which was the greater 
achievement of the two, and studied so hard, that 
at the end of eighteen months his uncle, the school- 
124 



ANTHONY WAYNE 

master, had to acknowledge that he could teach the 
boy no more, and that he was well fitted to pass on 
to a school of higher grade. 

Young Wayne went to an academy in Philadel- 
phia, and in two years was a well educated civil 
engineer, dragging chain and instruments through 
the pathless forests of Pennsylvania. Unlike many 
youths with longings for a military career, math- 
ematics was to him one of the most interesting of 
studies, and accounted for the final choice of his 
profession. A new vista was opened for the young- 
man by Benjamin Franklin, who was the head of 
an association organized for the purpose of buying 
lands in Nova Scotia, and settling them with Eng- 
lish colonists. Wayne, then but twenty years old, 
was chosen to manage the enterprise in the field. 

Wayne took a numerous company of settlers to 
Nova Scotia, and placed them on a tract ofl land 
near the St. John's River. The tract was a hundred 
thousand acres in extent. He also took up another 
large grant on the banks of the Piticoodzock. In 
the records in the old Crown Land Office, in the 
ancient city of Quebec, may yet be seen old deeds 
and transfers, to which is attached the name of 
Anthony Wayne. 

The young manager surveyed the enormous tracts 
allotted to the company, found convenient places 
for ferries, and explored the country in search of 
mineral springs, iron and coal mines, mast lands 
and limestone deposits. He made his report to 
the company in December, in Philadelphia, and they 
were entirely satisfied with the way in which he 
had conducted the venture. He was made perma- 
nent resident manager for the company in Nova 
Scotia, and returned there the following spring. 
The trouble with the mother country had grown so 
threatening, that it was soon seen that it would be 
unsafe for the Philadelphia company to continue 
125 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

the enterprise. Accordingly, Wayne and his colo- 
nists had to abandon their settlement and return 
home. When he arrived in Philadelphia, he married 
his sweetheart, Mary Penrose, who belonged to a 
prominent family of the colony, and took her to his 
home at Waynesboro, where young Wayne set him- 
self up in business as a tanner. 

He went into the political life of Pennsylvania, 
and was soon filling various local offices. He was 
one of the representatives sent from Chester 
County to the Pennsylvania Assembly that met in 
Philadelphia in 1T74. He took a leading part in the 
assembly, and we find him acting both as member 
and chairman of important committees appointed 
by that body. 

When the news of the battles of Lexington and 
Concord reached Chester County, W^ayne foresaw 
that a long and bloody conflict was imminent. He 
was active in the Committee of Safety, in forming 
military companies, and arranging with the local 
authorities for supplies of arms and ammunition. 
He secured from Philadelphia all the books that could 
be bought there dealing with military subjects. He 
became drill master to the raw but patriotic re- 
cruits of his home county, who were as interested 
as he in the great game that all felt they must 
soon play against opponents better trained and bet- 
ter equipped than themselves. John Adams wrote 
from Philadelphia that one "would burst to see 
whole companies of armed Quakers in that city, in 
uniforms, going through the manual." 

At the first outbreak of the Revolution, Wayne 
was made colonel of the Fourth Pennsylvania. It 
was at first a rather turbulent organization, but 
their commander soon brought them into a state 
of dicipline; and the spirit that would have caused 
trouble to a less resolute officer was developed into 
an esprit de corps, a soldierly pride, that sent the 
126 



ANTHONY WAYNE 

regiment forward into places of danger considered 
untenable by the enemy. Wayne was soon sent 
North to the recently conquered fortress of Ticon- 
deroga and then on to Canada. He arrived too late 
to take part in the siege of Quebec, but joined the 
forces under General Sullivan. It war, in the expe- 
dition against Three Rivers that Wayne fought his 
first battle of the war. A report was brought in 
by scouts, who had been hanging about the Eng- 
lish outposts, that about eight hundred of the enemy 
had established themselves at Three Rivers. Colo- 
nel Arthur St. Clair received permission to attempt 
a surprise with a force of six hundred. Hardly 
had his men disappeared down the forest road when 
General Sullivan decided to send re-enforcements 
under General Thompson, lender him went Colonel 
Wayne with two hundred and two men. They 
overtook St. Clair at Nicolet, crossed the river in 
the night, and in the mirk of the morning formed 
for the attack. The entire force now numbered a 
little less than fifteen hundred. Most of them were 
Pennsylvanians and men from New Jersey. A large 
portion of the officers and men, it is interesting to 
note, were of Scottish blood, the divisions, with the 
exception of Wayne's, being led by Maxwell, St. 
Clair, and Irvine. 

The expedition now learned that instead of hun- 
dreds to oppose them, there were thousands sup- 
ported by warships. To make matters worse their 
guides were not certain of the road, and they did 
not get to the vicinity of the town until the next 
day. After resting the men, the order to advance 
was given. They tightened their belts, shouldered 
their muskets, and plunged into the swamp lands 
that stretched between them and Three Rivers. 
Wayne, "the dandy," led, sinking at times in the 
ooze, and spattering his immaculate white broad- 
cloth uniform with mud. He was a great stickler 
127 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

for the pageantry of war, and laughingly acknowl- 
edged that he could fight better if he and his men 
had a smart and soldierly appearance. 

At last, after a toilsome struggle, the men 
marched out upon the fields near the town, and, 
though the Americans hardly expected to effect a 
surprise after their long and delayed march, they 
found General Frazer's force entirely unprepared 
to meet them. Why some scouting party, at a time 
when the armies were in such close touch, had not 
seen the advancing force and given the alarm was 
one of the mysteries of the campaign. General 
Frazer himself dashed out of the camp and down 
to the shore. Standing on the high bank he called 
out to the officers of the warships that were lying 
close in: 

"Wake up, and send ashore all the guns you 
possibly can. The rebels are coming, two or three 
thousand of them. They are within three miles of 
the town." 

Frazer then hurried back, and a moment later 
appeared marching at the head of his troops, to 
meet the oncoming Americans. He had enough 
soldiers to sweep them away in a moment if they 
had not been disorganized by surprise. Wayne 
found himself confronting this superior force; and, 
at the same moment that he sent forward a com- 
pany of light infantry, to skirmish with the ad- 
vance, the shots from the British men-of-war began 
to drop across his front. He formed his battalion 
in line of battle; it had been impossible to get 
through the swamp in any but narrow column 
formation. He marched his men straight forward 
until close to Frazer's leading files, then he swung 
in his wings until they made a crescent about the 
head of the English column. A sharp command, 
and the Americans poured in a well directed fire. 
Front and flank the balls came hissing, and after 
128 



ANTHONY WAYNE 

a few moments of conflict the red line broke and 
fell back towards the camp they had left so proudly 
a few moments before. Suddenly a heavy column, 
supported by artillery, attacked Wayne's right. 
Nothing daunted he led his men forward as Max- 
well came up out of the sv/amp at his left and 
brought his men on at a run. The other American 
regiments were also emerging from another part 
of the morass and forming to meet the force that 
was firing on Wayne's advancing infantry. Wayne 
charged on until he saw that the enemy was waiting 
behind some hastily constructed breastworks and 
that he was greatly outnumbered. When he got 
within a short distance of the earthworks, Wayne 
glanced back, and the sight that met his gaze was 
enough to discourage the heart of the bravest of 
men. Hundreds of scarlet coated troops were 
pushing Maxwell's men back into the swamp, though 
the latter were fighting desperately and falling 
back with their face to the foe. At a little dis- 
tance the two divisions that were under the imme- 
diate command of General Thompson were also 
being forced from the field. The fire from the 
English infantry in front and a cross fire from the 
warships, to which the men had no means of reply- 
ing, left them no alternative but to retreat. 

In a few moments it was a battle between Wayne 
with two hundred determined men against three 
thousand of the enemy, supported by a powerful 
fleet. Slowly the two hundred retired, giving ball 
for ball. In the edge of the forest Wayne found 
the reserves, and collecting all the men he could 
from the other regiments, he stood ofi" the enemy 
until almost their entire force, with colors flying 
and drums beating, charged to drive him out of 
his cover in the forest edge. The American force 
how marched ofi^ toward the rear in good order, 
while Wayne, with twenty marksmen and six oflficers 
129 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

who had volunteered, remained behind to cover the 
retreat. 

And now came one of those scenes that makes 
the blood of men tingle in their veins and brings 
the cheer to their lips for the heroes, though their 
banner bears an insignia different from their own. 
For one long hour the little band of twenty-seven 
held three thousand fighting men at bay. Through 
the clouds of smoke and dust, the hiss of bullets 
and of shot from musket and cannon, would come 
sharp and clear the cheer of the American riflemen, 
as with rifles against their cheeks they swept the 
field in front. At last waving their weapons 
vauntingly above their heads they plunged deep into 
the woods where hounds alone could follow. 

Wayne, when he reached the outskirts of the 
swamp, rallied seven hundred soldiers and forming 
them into line started them on the backward road 
to the main army. Some miles from Three Rivers 
they were attacked by a force numbering fifteen 
hundred men, but the Americans beat the British 
back, and for the rest of the march they were not 
molested. Wayne's boats had been taken away by 
the guards left in charge, as they were in danger 
of capture by the British warships beating about 
in the St. Lawrence. In consequence, Wayne was 
compelled to march for three days on the upper side 
of the river until he came opposite Sorel. Here he 
was able to cross, and reported to General Sullivan 
with eleven hundred men. Of the American force 
engaged in the expedition one hundred and fifty 
had been taken prisoners, including General Thomp- 
son, while fifty had been killed or wounded. Wayne 
received a slight wound in the leg. 

At Sorel it was found that a British army of 

thirteen thousand regulars was advancing from 

Montreal, and a prompt retreat was the only course 

left open for the little army under the command of 

130 



ANTHONY WAYNE 

General Sullivan. He started his troops up the 
Sorel River toward Lake Champlain, to avoid the 
large fleet that had appeared oif the American 
camp. In spite of the necessary haste in the pres- 
ence of a superior force, the Americans managed to 
get away with their complete camp outfits. It was 
storming, and some of the regiments became dis- 
organized in the darkness and rain. 

A messenger arrived from Arnold, who was in 
command at Montreal, asking that re-enforcements 
be sent to him, in order that he could make suffi- 
cient front against the enemy, to bring oif his men 
in safety. The messenger found the rear of the 
army straggling badly; and he was informed by one 
of the general officers that it would be exceedingly 
difficult to get the troops required. The messenger 
soon saw Wayne and his men marching calmly, and 
as if on parade. Wayne, as soon as he found what 
was wanted, drew his men across the road and 
stopped every man who appeared capable of active 
service. In a short time, a well organized body of 
troops was formed and on the march to Montreal. 
Arnold, it was found, after the troops had been 
marching north for a while, had managed to escape 
with his men without the aid of additional troops, 
and Wayne turned back on the way to Chambly 
and St. John's. After stopping at Crown Point, 
the army took up its position in the works at 
Ticonderoga. 

For several months Wayne was in command of 
the fortress, and strengthened it with additional 
batteries, block houses and an abatis. If his advice 
had been taken, and the neighboring mountain fort- 
ified, it would have never been necessary for Amer- 
ican troops to evacuate the place, as they did do 
after Wayne left. 

Sickness made its appearance within the walls, 
and there were neither beds nor proper medical 
131 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

attendance for those who were stricken. Dead and 
dying lay side by side in the hospitals. A less 
courageous spirit than Wayne would have been 
crushed by the long train of disasters. 

A mutiny broke out, that was quelled by Wayne, 
who stopped the men at the muzzle of his pistol. 
The time had expired for the mutineers, who de- 
clared they were going home. Wayne, however, felt 
that in this emergency he nuist keep them to their 
colors. Many of the soldiers serving were mere 
boys twelve to fifteen years old. Wayne was now 
promoted to be a brigadier general for his services 
in Canada and at the fort, and placed in command 
of eight regiments of the Pennsylvania line. With 
these he joined Washington in New Jersey in May, 
1777. 

While in command of the Pennsylvania line, 
Wayne came one day into close proximity to the 
boastful English general. Grant, who had said, at 
the opening of the war, that he would march through 
America at the head of five thousand men. Grant 
had seven hundred and Wayne had five hundred. 
Six times did Wayne offer battle, marching his men 
on the English line, but the latter would fire a few- 
volleys and then break in confusion, Wayne would 
never return the fire, but tried to close with Grant's 
men. The enemy, when he rushed at them for the 
sixth time, left the field to Wayne. The English 
general had his horse's head taken off, and was 
himself dirted and bruised by rolling about in the 
mud. 

Wayne led his men with his usual skill and dash 
at the battle of Brandywine, holding the point of 
danger for four hours, and only retreating when he 
discovered an entire division of Cornwallis march- 
ing down on his rear. He brought off his men in 
such good order, however, that the enemy watched 
them go without offering to attack them. 
132 



ANTHONY WAYNE 

After the repulse at Brandywine, the Americans 
pulled themselves together, and in a few days were 
again on the march to meet the British forces. One 
night while Wayne was encamped near a force of 
the enemy, with the expectation of attacking them 
in the morning, he was himself attacked by the 
British under Grey, and, after a desperate con- 
flict, was compelled to retreat. Wayne was accused 
by jealous officers of not having taken proper pre- 
cautions, and he at once demanded a court martial, 
to clear himself. 

The court convened and heard the evidence. It 
found that the surprise was due to the negligence 
of the principal accusing officer, and at once ac- 
quitted Wayne. 

At Monmouth, Wayne kept the British line in 
play, until Washington arrived and ordered back 
the troops that had been thrown into confusion by 
Lee's command to retreat. The British Grenadiers 
were picked to drive Wayne from the field, and 
their commander, the brave Monckton, in a brief 
speech urged them to make victory certain by their 
valor. Wayne was so close to the opposing line that 
he heard every word of Monckton's speech. The 
Grenadiers responded to their commander's appeal 
with a ringing cheer. The charge was made, and 
repulsed, Monckton being killed. Time and again 
his men came on in the endeavor to recover his 
body. They were repeatedly thrown back by the 
counter charges of Wayne and his men, and at last, 
completely exhausted, were compelled to beat a 
retreat. 

After Monmouth, Wayne made enemies in the 
Assembly of Pennsylvania and in Congress by liis 
insistant demands for supplies for his needy troops. 
At last Arthur St. Clair was placed over him, and 
he asked for a leave of absence and went to his 
home in Pennsylvania. He asked Washington to 
133 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

form a light corps of which he could have the sole 
command. The request was granted, and shortly 
after Washington sent for Wayne to lead them in 
an attempt on the famous fortress of Stony Point. 

Wayne arrived post haste from Pennsylvania, and 
took immediate command of the light corps. He 
made his headquarters at Sandy Beach, a mile up 
the river from Fort Montgomery. Two of his regi- 
ments were in camp at Sandy Beach, on the farm 
belonging to Benjamin Jaques, a soldier who had 
helped to defend Fort Montgomery at the time of 
the assault and massacre in 1777. The other two 
regiments oi) the light corps were camped east of 
the Hudson. None of the officers of the brigade 
knew of the plans for the bold enterprise that was 
to occupy such a brilliant place in the record of 
American military achievements. 

W^ayne, after consulting with Washington, care- 
fully made his preparations to surprise the fortress 
of Stony Point, and to carry it by storm. He as- 
cended the Donderberg, in order to look down upon 
the enemies' works, and was for the moment dashed 
by their apparent strength. It seemed as if nothing 
human could attack them and live; but his usual 
desire to attempt a venture that would be considered 
almost an impossibility, again returned to him. He 
took AVashington with an escort of light infantry 
to reconnoitre the works. Together they decided 
that the attack should be made by night. To make 
the attempt by day would mean a great loss of life 
and with little hope of success. 

Stony Point was an oblong island of one hundred 
acres, close to the west bank of the Hudson River, 
twelve miles below West Point. It was a natural 
fortress, rocky and rugged, the side toward the 
shore, from which any attacking party might come, 
being very precipitous. At its highest point it 
was one hundred and forty feet above the water. 
134 



ANTHONY WAYNE 

A channel, deep enough for light boats, and form- 
ing a good moat or fosse, cut between the island 
and the main land. On each side of the waterway 
the ground was swampy for a long distance. An 
elevated causeway had been built across the marsh 
to the island at the time when the Americans had 
first held the island. This causeway had obstructed 
the channel, and the waves had washed up the sand 
at both ends of the swamp, making a narrow beach 
that connected the west shore and the island at 
low tide. The English troops had constructed on 
the heights fourteen breastworks thsLt covered every 
possible approach. Three of them faced the land 
side in such a way that the cannon would sweep 
both beach and causeway. 

In front of the breastworks an abatis of pointed 
stakes and trees, felled so that their sharpened 
branches would point outward, was stretched clear 
across the island, and another was constructed 
reaching out beyond the farthest redoubts. Mounted 
on the works were twenty-two cannon, heavy and 
light, mortars and howitzers. To defend the post there 
were six hundred and seven men, under Lieutenant- 
Colonel Henry Johnson, of the Seventeenth Regi- 
ment of Foot. He referred proudly to his fortress 
as the "Little Gibraltar." 

Wayne wanted to leave nothing undone that would 
insure the success of his hazardous venture. He 
asked that better uniforms be provided for the men, 
but this could not be done in the straightened state 
of the army's finances. He also asked that each 
oiRcer be provided with a copy of Baron Steuben's 
book of military instructions. He got a few of 
these. He also requested Washington to secure 
fifty espontoons for the company officers. These 
were half pikes or short spears, the blades being 
broad and well fitted for ^e hand-to-hand combat, 
such as would result from a night attack upon an 
135 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

entrenched position. He received them greatly to 
his satisfaction, and also to that of the officers, who 
had expected to do their part with the light side 
arms usually worn in the Revolutionary campaigns. 

Washington arranged the general plan of the 
attack, and Wayne was to change any details he 
saw fit in case of emergency. On the 11th of July 
parties of riflemen began to scout about Stony 
Point, keeping the garrison in a constant state of 
alarm, and preventing the officers from sending out 
spies or the usual patrols. "Light Horse" Harry 
Lee with a hundred and fifty troopers rode back 
and forth on the landward side, to see that no re- 
enforcements or information could be got through 
to the fort. The troopers killed every dog within 
three miles of the garrison so that no unusual bark- 
ing, caused by the appearance of marching men, 
would come on the evening air to the alert ears of 
the sentries on the ramparts of the fort. 

One of the officers arrested the "Widow Calhoun 
and another widow going to the enemy with chickens 
and greens," and kept them quietly secluded until 
there had been a change of market and customers 
at the Point. 

Two days later, the light infantry, that had been 
camped in the hills on the east bank of the Hudson, 
were brought across the river to join their com- 
rades on the shore at Sandy Beach. They were 
sheltered temporarily in huts of brush and bark. 

Towards noon the next day every battalion of the 
light infantry corps was ordered out to parade. 
They were commanded to appear "fresh shaved and 
well powdered," Every button and brass shone 
with much rubbing, while the gun barrels and bayo- 
nets of the rank and file glittered and glinted in 
the July sun. Every officer had done his utmost 
to get his uniforms and trappings in the best pos- 
sible condition to pass muster under the watchful 
136 



ANTHONY WAYNE 

eye of their fastidious leader. Wayne and his field 
officers strode up and down the line, every gun was 
presented; the ramrods were rung in the barrels, 
and every haversack opened to show that it con- 
tained the rations allotted for a brief campaign. 
Until noon not one of Wayne's force knew definitely 
that an expedition was really in the orders of the 
day. The officers of the scouting parties alone had 
been informed of the work they were to do. 

The inspection over, the soldiers had expected that 
the order would be given to break ranks and return 
to their company kitchens for dinner. In place of 
this, however, they were formed into column and 
marched off southward to Fort Montgomery, with 
two small field pieces under picked artillerymen, 
clanking along behind. At the Fort they wheeled 
to the right, and in a long thin line entered the 
narrow pass that reaches into the hills between Torn 
Mountain on the right and Bear Mountain on the 
left. 

It was a memorable march, and one to be told 
for many a long year at veterans' firesides among 
the snowy hills of New Hampshire, in homes along 
the bleak coast of New England, and in the quiet 
valleys of Pennsylvania and Virginia; wherever the 
soldiers of Wayne finally pitched their tents, and 
waited for a louder trumpet than ever rose in battle 
among the dark mountains of the Hudson. They 
advanced in deep silence, a silence broken only at 
long intervals by a muttered order, whispered from 
rank to rank, or the rattle of a sword <scabbard or 
a musket butt as they caught in some low bush, or 
dislodged some stone that fell noisily into the 
mountain stream below. About them lay the un- 
broken woods bathed in the July sun; back of them 
and on each hand rose the great mountains that 
cast black shadows across the blue and brown 
ranks; once an eagle rose, soaring in a great circle. 
137 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

Late in the afternoon the troups debouched upon 
a small platoon where they could look down on 
Stony Point a mile and a half away. The men were 
now formed into three columns, Colonel Febiger 
commanding the first, Butler the second, and Major 
Murfree the third. From each of the two first 
columns were picked one hundred and fifty men. 
These were placed twenty paces in front of their 
respective divisions. Every man of the entire com- 
mand was given a piece of white paper, to place in 
his hat in order to distinguish one another in the 
darkness. 

In a low voice the order of battle was then read 
to the expectant soldiers, who until that moment 
had no information as to what the night's work 
was to be. The men of the two heaviest columns 
were to keep their muskets unloaded and to depend 
entirely on the bayonet. Murfree's men, however, 
were to have their pieces charged with ball. The 
officers were to use their recently acquired espon- 
toons in the melee that was to come at the crest of 
the hill. 

Wayne in his orders said: "The General has the 
fullest confidence in the bravery and fortitude of 
the corps. Should there be any soldier so lost to 
the feeling of honor as to attempt to retreat one 
single foot or skulk in the face of danger, the offi- 
cer next to him is immediately to put him to death 
— that he may no longer disgrace the name of a 
soldier, or the corps or State he belongs to. The 
misconduct of one man is not to put the whole corps 
in danger or disorder, and to be suffered to pass 
with life." 

Wayne then had it announced that, to show his 
appreciation of special acts of valor, that the first 
five men who entered the works of the enemy were 
to receive $500, $400, $300, $200, and $100; the first 
man, in addition to the money, to be promoted. 
138 



ANTHONY WAYNE 

Colonel Febiger and Colonel Butler chose twenty- 
men each that were to clear the way for their 
columns. These men slung their muskets across 
their backs and were given axes and hooks, to cut 
down the abatis. If any of them survived, they 
were to charge over the breastworks with the rest. 
All of the younger officers were so anxious to have 
the honor of leading these "forlorn hopes," that the 
question was settled by drawing lots. 

Febiger was to march down until he reached the 
south end of the swamp that protected the land- 
ward side of the Point, cross the sand-bar and then 
charge up the south side of the hill. Wayne himself 
was to go with this detachment. Colonel Butler was 
ordered to go to the north end of the swamp, make 
his way across the sand-bar and charge up the north 
side. While these columns were making their as- 
saults, Murfree was to march his men, their muskets 
loaded, down the causeway and over the bridge on 
the regular road into the fortress. As soon as the 
British opened fire, he was to dash over the bridge 
and open fire, the object being to make the enemy 
believe that the main attack was being made along 
the causeway. When the first line was carried, the 
troops of all three divisions were to call "the fort is 
ours," and to keep it up until all opposition was 
crushed. 

Late in the evening Wayne, accompanied by a few 
of his staff officers, made his final reconnoisance and 
carefully examined the three routes to be taken by 
his men. 

Everything indicated that the enemy had no sus- 
picion of the coming attack and felt perfectly se- 
cure in their "Little Gibraltar." 

At half past eleven, Wayne took his position in 
front of Colonel Fibiger's column. Only the fore- 
most ranks could make out his form as they waited 
in the darkness. Then they saw him draw his sword 
139 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

and the well known voice rang sharp and clear: 

"Forward ! March !" 

With a rattle and heave the long line of men 
put themselves in motion and marched down the 
slope. After they had gone a half mile and were 
a mile from the fortress the three divisions sepa- 
rated and hurried swiftly forward to their desig- 
nated positions. 

AVhen Wayne and the column he was leading 
reached the sand-bar at the south end of the 
swamp, they found that tlie tide was coming in, 
and the water nearly three feet deep. Nothing 
daunted the men plunged in. 

It was a half hour after midnight when the ear 
of the sentry on the heights above heard a sus- 
picious splashing of the waters of the moat. Peer- 
ing forward he saw something dark moving toward 
the bank on which his picket was placed. He threw 
up his musket and the next moment the crash of 
the piece sent the echoes rolling and vibrating along 
the shore and among the foothills of the Donder- 
berg. 

Murfree's men at once rushed the causcAvay, 
firing as they came on. Wayne's men splashed 
across, all thought of concealing their movements 
abandoned. They had to wade across a stretch of 
six hundred feet, and before they had gone half 
that distance the enemy had waked up, formed be- 
hind the breastworks and opened fire with small 
arms and cannon. Through a rain of shot Wayne 
and his men plunged forward. As they reached 
the abatis seventeen of the intrepid advance squad 
were killed. Wayne was struck in the head by a 
bullet that caused him to fall headlong. He was 
up in a moment, and cried: 

"March on!" 

He then called to his aides: "Help me into the 
fort. Let me die at the head of my column." 
140 



ANTHONY WAYNE 

The riflemen swarmed over the parapets, and 
without attempting to load and fire, drove the de- 
fenders back toward the parade ground with cold 
steel. The French volvmteer, Fleury, and several 
others who had been the first to reach the crest, 
dashed after the grenadiers, and raised the shout: 

"The fort is ours ! The fort is ours !" 

All of the men took up the cry until it reechoed 
among the mountains and told the distant camps 
the kind of work that M'as being done. Butler's 
troops, at the moment the shout was raised, came 
vaulting over the obstructions at the north of the 
Point, and the English foot at once gave ground. 

As the cry "the fort's our own" began to swell 
into a roar of triumph, the defenders threw down 
their arms and called for quarter. The Americans 
accepted the surrender and placed a guard over the 
prisoners, who numbered nearly six hundred. One 
man only had escaped by swimming ofi". Fleury 
rushed to the flag-stafi^ and hauled down the colors. 
The captured cannon were loaded and then trained 
on the British ship Vulture, which was moored in 
the river. 

The victory of Stony Point, coming in one of 
the dark hours of the Revolution, raised the wildest 
enthusiasm throughout the country. Congress voted 
a gold medal to Wayne, and silver medals to Fleury 
and vSeward. Three of the men who had displayed 
the most reckless daring, were brevetted captains. 
Congress also commended Wayne "for his brave, 
prudent, and well conducted attack at Stony Point." 

The famous light infantry continued its existence 
for only a year after it had swept over the works 
at Stony Point. It was disbanded, and the men, 
for the most part, became members of other corps. 
They were picked soldiers, used to the trade of war, 
and not ready to give it up while there was work 
to be done. 

14.1 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

Wayne for a while was on waiting orders and 
returned home, but came back to duty in May, 1780. 
He was given a brigade of Pennsylvania troops. 
General St. Clair being his commanding officer, as 
commander of the Pennsylvania line. Wayne had 
not been back long before he took his men on a raid 
down the Hudson into New Jersey. He attacked 
a block house on Bergen Heights that was filled 
with Tories, and made it so warm for them that 
three thousand British troops were sent across the 
Hudson from New York City to drive off the 
American force. They did not land, however, and 
the raiders went off with most of the cattle and 
forage in the vicinity. The British claimed a great 
victory as the attackers had gone, leaving the block 
house in the possession of the Tories, but Wayne 
had used his attack on this outpost only to keep the 
enemy busy while he gathered up supplies for the 
American army. It also gave the British com- 
mander such a scare that he gave up a contemplated 
raiding expedition among the Connecticut towns. 

Wayne was one of the men on whom Washington 
felt he could rely in the dark hours immediately 
following Arnold's treason. Arnold had weakened 
the garrison at West Point so that an attempt on 
it, even by a small British force, must have been 
successful. Washington sent a messenger post haste 
to Tappan, where Wayne had his headquarters. 
The aide rode up to Wayne's tent an hour after 
midnight, and a few moments later the rattle of 
drums woke the sleeping men and they came run- 
ning, musket in hand, to the colors. A brief word 
of command and the two brigades headed up the 
river on their march to save West Point. They 
covered the sixteen miles in four hours, marching 
in the dark, an almost vmequaled feat in a similar 
country. At five in the morning they were at the 
entrance to the Haverstraw Pass, that is the gate- 
142 



ANTHONY WAYNE 

way through the mountains to West Point. Not one 
inan was reported missing. 

West Point was placed under the command of 
Wayne, who wrote to a friend: 

"I shall not throw myself into the works, but will 
dispute the approaches inch by inch and at the point 
of the bayonet, and decide the fate of the day in the 
gorge of the defiles at every expense of blood." 

Some time later a revolt broke out among the 
troops of the Pennsylvania line who were without 
money, proper food or sufficient clothing. Shoes 
were at a premium, and some of the men were 
forced to march with their feet bound up with rags. 
Thirteen hundred of them marched off for Phila- 
delphia to demand assistance from Congress. Wayne 
followed them, and found them keeping military 
order and perfectly loyal to their country, but de- 
termined to have their wrongs redressed. Congress 
became frightened, anmesty was proclaimed to the 
mutineers and the troops were supplied with neces- 
sities. In fact, it was a good experience for the 
Continental Congress, who had long neglected the 
troops on the Hudson. 

In 1780, Wayne went South with eight hundred 
men, with orders to join General Greene, who was 
opposing the army of Ivord Cornwallis. He was 
not able to do this, but at Fredericksburg, Virginia, 
Wayne met Lafayette and his forces. The latter, 
with the re-enforcements of Wayne and one other 
general, found himself at the head of six thousand 
men, and he at once followed Cornwallis down the 
peninsula, Wayne leading the advance guard. On 
July 6, 1781, it was found that the enemy was at 
Green Spring, on the James River. Wayne at once 
took his eight hundred men, and advanced rapidly 
over a corduroy road, that formed a causeway 
through a large swamp, in the hope of surprising 
the rear guard. 

143 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

Wayne found himself, when he emerged from the 
swamp, in one of those positions in which fate 
seemed to throw him, in order that he might, by 
some desperate achievement,^ win glory where lesser 
men would fail. He found not only the rear guard, 
but the entire army of Cornwallis, cavalry, infantry, 
and artillery, drawn up, waiting confidently to an- 
nihilate the presumptions troops that had hung so 
long upon their track. 

Sending an aide to Lafayette to come at once 
with his troops, Wayne strung out a small force of 
skirmishers to keep the British troops in play. The 
latter in a few moments began to march down upon 
Wayne's advance line. Five thousand men, their 
arms glistening in the sun, snowy cross belts, and 
brass-faced bear-skin hats, making a martial show 
to impress any but such war-hardened veterans as 
were facing them several hundred yards in front. 

On they came with their bands playing, ten 
thousand white-gaitered legs moving as one. Sud- 
denly they saw the American commander rise in 
his stirrups with his sword held high above his 
head. Then a voice, that many a grenadier re- 
membered to have heard ring in the din of battle 
at Monmouth, Brandywine and Stony Point, gave 
the word to charge. Down went eight hundred bay- 
onets, forward dashed the blue line, cheering as it 
ran. Cornwallis thought that these bold warriors 
who were dashing on him at the double, must be 
only a fraction of a force that would follow from 
the woods. He ordered his five thousand to halt, 
and Wayne and his men wheeled off in perfect 
order, without the loss of a man. 

Is it a wonder that such feats as these endeared 
Mad Anthony to his men, and made them feel that, 
if he but led, numbers were not necessary to win 
their country's battles? 

The first of the next year Wayne was sent to 
144 



ANTHONY WAYNE 

recover Georgia for the patriot cause. The country- 
had been helpless, and at the mercy of Tories 
and German mercenaries. The inhabitants were in 
constant terror of having their houses burned over 
their heads and themselves shot if they offered the 
least resistance to the exactions of their oppressors. 
The Indians also had been called in to add the 
terrors of the warwhoop, the tomahawk and the 
scalping knife. Wayne was greatly outnumbered, 
but he cut off the enemy's source of supplies, and 
laid siege to the city of Savannah. He captured, 
through a ruse, a number of the Indian chiefs, and 
compelled them to remain neutral. He heard after 
a time that a thousand British troops were to march 
out of the city to unite with some Creek Indians 
coming up towards the city. Wayne started out 
to interce])t the first force before it could unite 
with the re-enforcements. Again, as on two pre- 
vious occasions, the march to the enemy was through 
a swamp. Reaching the Ogeechee road, he drew up 
his men. Wayne was outnumbered five to one, but 
drove the enemy at the point of the bayonet into 
the swamp. A few days later Wayne was attacked 
by the Indians, who charged his camp in the night. 
The Indian general, Guirstersiji, attacked Wayne 
in person, and was cut down by the ever ready 
sword of Mad Anthony. The fall of their chief 
disheartened the Indians, and, raising the wailing 
cry that precedes the retreat, streamed from the 
American works, Wayne's men assisting their rear 
guard over the breastworks with the points of 
their bayonets. On July 11th, the British left the 
city to the victorious Wayne, and the State of Geor- 
gia voted him a plantation and a large sum of money. 

The war ended in October, 1783, and Wayne put 

his energy to develop his recently acquired estate, 

but gave it up to satisfy some protested notes. He 

returned to Chester, Pennsylvania, and became a 

145 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

member of the State Board of Censors, appointed 
to review public acts, the records of officials and the 
work of the legislature. Later he was a member 
of the assembly. Greater work, however, was in 
store for him, work to be done alone for his coun- 
try, and for which he would not have to share the 
glory with other statesmen or other generals. 

The country could not let a man of Wayne's 
ability and courage long remain a private citizen, 
and the first great national crisis after the close of 
the Revolution at once called him into the saddle. 
The people of the colonies, at the close of hostil- 
ities, were again imbued with the spirit for west- 
ward exploration and settlement, that they had 
shown since the days they began to spread out a 
network of towns from Plymouth on Massachusetts 
Bay, and Jamestown, in Virginia. The Northwest 
Territory was organized in 1787, and General St. 
Clair was appointed governor. He tried to buy 
the Indian titles to the lands within his jurisdiction. 
Treaties were made, but those who agreed to them 
represented but a small portion of the redskins who 
held sway over the forest country, and the treaties 
were worthless. In fact, the greater part of the 
tribes were already on the warpath while the treaties 
were being ratified. Marietta and Cincinnati felt 
secure with the protection of their forts, but hostile 
war parties laid waste village after village north of 
the Ohio, in Western Pennsylvania and in Kentucky. 
St. Clair was finally sent against the Indians, one 
general already having been repulsed. His army 
was composed of raw recruits enlisted for six 
months. Of course, the inevitable happened. St. 
Clair was encamped in the fall in what is now 
Mercer County, Ohio. One morning from the dark 
shadows of the neighboring woods there came a cry, 
and then whooping and yelling the whole Indian host 
broke over the white camp and swept the defenders 
146 



ANTHONY WAYNE 

from the ground. Only fifty escaped unharmed. 
The entire western frontier was now defenceless, 
and the victorious Indians had the settlers at their 
mercy. Settlement of the territory was for the 
time entirely out of the question. 

In April, 1792, Washington called Wayne from 
his retirement, and entrusted him with the command 
of the American forces. With the poorest material, 
the intrepid general began to organize his army at 
Pittsburg. Most of the troops sent him were en- 
tirely without any military experience; were gath- 
ered up anywhere in the East, and had no stomach 
for facing bloodthirsty Indians on the warpath. 
Wayne seemed to have almost superhuman ability 
in making conquering soldiers from any body of 
men, and in imbuing them, after a few months, 
with a fighting spirit, catching, as it were, the re- 
flection of his own. He could teach them to stand 
fire, trusting in the wisdom of his orders, or to 
deliver a crushing charge with the lowered bayonet, 
the favorite weapon of Mad Anthony for finishing 
battles. He took his men some miles down the 
Ohio River, encamped for the winter, and then 
worked like a drill sergeant to get them into the 
first semblance of a disciplined force. Officers were 
inexperienced, most of those who were trained to 
Indian fighting having perished in the rout of St. 
Clair's army. 

Spring found Wayne leading his now well drilled 
battalions to Fort Washington (Cincinnati, Ohio). 
His men had been taught many things not found 
in the drill books of the old days of flint-lock and 
muzzle-loader. They were instructed to load and fire 
repeatedly as they charged to close quarters with 
the bayonet; they were taught to load and fire while 
running at top speed through the woods, without 
resting the musket butts upon the ground. He 
trained them to cheer together as they swept madly 
147 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

forward on the ranks of an imaginary enemy. His 
dragoons were compelled to ford rivers at the flood, 
and, like the troopers of Frederick the Great, to 
tide through, or over, anything. One amusing story 
is told of his sending them sword in hand across 
the private garden of a distinguished oificer, to the 
damage of the cabbages, but to the increased ex- 
perience of the cavalry. Every conceivable emer- 
gency was thought out by Wayne, and his men 
shown how to meet it. They grew in confidence 
day by day, and in the minds of the troops there 
was no doubt of the result when the time came to 
measure their prowess with that of the enemy. 

It was in August, 1794, that Wayne was to fight 
his last battle and crush forever the power of the 
tribes in the Northwest Territory. He camped on 
the 18th at the head of the rapids at Roche de 
Bout, built a small fort, and sent out scouts to 
discover the whereabouts and numbers of the 
enemy. He knew that they could not be far dis- 
tant, as they were in communication with the 
British fort. He discovered that they had forti- 
fied themselves tit a spot called Fallen Timbers. A 
tornado had swept through the woods some time 
previously and left thousands of trees uprooted, 
and as they lay with twisted and interlacing 
branches it made an almost impenetrable abatis. 
In these the enemy lay concealed, waiting for the 
coming of the white warriors. At eight o'clock on 
the morning of the nineteenth, the drums beat to 
arms. Wayne was so ill that he was unable to 
mount alone, and four men placed him in the sad- 
dle. A battalion of mounted men from Kentucky 
led the advance, and at six miles from the camp 
saw the advance outposts of the enemy. The horse- 
men at once charged in among the trees with a 
ringing cheer, but the fire that met them forced 
them back upon the supporting column. Wayne at 
148 



ANTHONY WAYNE 

once ordered General ^cott to force back the right 
of the Indian line and the cavalry to attack their 
left. Then raising his sword he gave the word to 
charge. The infantry had formed in a long thin 
line; the bugles blared, the drums beat, and with 
a rolling cheer the men rushed headlong, jumped 
over the logs and broken stumps, and bayoneted 
the savages wherever they could be found. For 
two miles they drove them belter skelter, even by 
the English fort, and then the cava^iVy took up 
the chase, hacking and hewing upon the rear of the 
once proud warriors of Miami and Powatamie. 

When the men rallied that night around their 
victorious leader, only a few bands of skulking 
savages, cowed and disheartened, were within many 
miles of the battle field. Ever after in the language 
of the red Pottawattamies was Wayne known as 
the Tornado, for as such had he driven them as 
the wind drives the red leaves of autumn, and by 
the Miamis he was called the Black Snake who had 
hunted them among the tree trunks of the forests. 

After the victory Wayne built Fort Industry on 
the spot where now stands the city of Toledo, Ohio. 
With this post garrisoned he cleaned up the entire 
valley of the Maumee. There were a great many 
Indian villages and a vast number of corn fields 
in the district, but these were destroyed to bring 
the Indians to terms. At the head of the Maumee 
he built Fort Wayne. He then went to Greenville, 
where he encamped for the winter. 

On August 3, 1T95, Wayne made a treaty with 
fifteen tribes, its object being to put an end to 
a. destructive war, and to settle all controversies. 
It established a boundary line between the settlers 
and the Indians, and its provisions were respected 
for fifteen years. Wayne carefully explained all 
points in the treaty so that there could be no doubt 
in the minds of the warriors as to what they were 
149 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

doing. Wayne told them, however, that they were 
"children and no longer brothers." It was well 
deserved. The treaty not only settled the Indian 
question, but prevented a second war with Great 
Britain, and led to the evacuation of the frontier 
posts still held by the British soldiers. 

The treaty of Greenville opened all the country 
for settlement between the Great Lakes, the Ohio 
and Mississippi Rivers, and was of epoch-making 
importance. 

In 1796 General Wayne was appointed to receive 
the surrender of the British forts on American 
territory, Congress having voted appropriations to 
carry out the treaty made with England by Jay. 
Wayne had saved the frontier, and the honor of 
hoisting the stars and stripes over the fortifications 
was one he well merited. He was received with the 
greatest consideration by the British posts. In 
November all of the transfers were completed, and 
Wayne left Detroit for Presque Isle. While on the 
way he was taken seriously ill. He was carried to 
the fortress at Presque Isle, and everything possible 
was done to alleviate his suffering. But all efforts 
made by his devoted attendants were in vain, and 
early in the morning of December 15, 1796, the 
hero answered his last roll call. In accordance with 
his own request he was buried by the flag-staff of 
the fort, so that the colors he had served so faith- 
fully and valiantly might still wave over him. 

In 1809 his bones were disinterred, at the request 
of his son. Colonel Isaac Wayne, and carried to 
the old churchyard of St. David's, at Radnor, Penn- 
sylvania. A monument was raised to his memory 
by the Society of the Cincinnati, and at Erie a 
monument and block-house, surmounted by a flag- 
staff, have been built by the State of Pennsylvania, 
above the spot where his body once rested. 

R. S. B. 
150 



MARINO FALIERO 

ON the evening of the Thursday before I^ent, 
in the year 1355, tlie Palace of the Doge of 
Venice was flaring with the lights of a masqued 
ball. A festival was in the ocean-city. The gondolas 
of all her proudest palaces shot everywhere across 
the glistening waters; and every gondola set down 
a gorgeous company at the steps of St. Mark's 
Place. The grand hall, where the Doge received 
his guests, ablaze with lamps and torches, and hum- 
ming with the strains of festal music, was thronged 
that night with ail that was most gallant and most 
beautiful in Venice. All the sights and sounds of 
carnival were there; cavaliers and lovely ladies, 
flowers and gems, magnificent attires, light feet 
whirling in the dances, bright eyes gleaming through 
the velvet masks. Venice — night — a masquerade ! 
— who could dream that this was the first scene of 
a most dark and awful drama? 

Marino Faliero had been Doge of Venice hardly 
more than half a year; but he was already an old 
man. At the time of his election he was seventy- 
six; and the long life on which he could look back 
had been one brilliant course of triumphs. From 
the proud and ancient house of Faliero two Doges 
had, in former centuries, already sprung; but that 
house could show no name more splendid than his 
own. He had been a soldier — and had seen the 
King of Hungary with eighty thousand men flee 
before his army. He had been commander of the 
fleet, and had forced the haughty standard of 
Capo d'Istria to stoop before his flag. He had been 
a senator, and had filled with high distinction all 
151 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

the loftiest offices of state. He had been ambas- 
sador at Genoa and at Rome. It was while on em- 
bassy at the latter city that he received intelligence 
of his election, during his absence, and without his 
solicitation, to the crowning dignity of Doge. 

But, high-born, brave and gifted as he was, 
Faliero was not one of those fine spirits who bear 
greatness with simplicity. His character, by nature 
quick and fiery, had become, by life-long habits 
of command, imperious, fierce and arrogant. Oppo- 
sition, of whatever kind, aroused within him a tor- 
nado of vindictive passion which swept everything 
before it. No rival had been found of power enough 
to stand before him; no opponent was so small as to 
escape his anger. He resembled in courage, but not 
in magnanimity, the lion who flies with savage joy 
at the elephant or the tiger, but who disdains to 
crush the mouse that runs across his paw. Once, in 
a chapel at Trevisto, where the bishop kept him 
waiting for the cup and wafer, he flew upon the 
holy man and boxed his ears. Hotspur was not 
more jealous in honor — Mercutio was not more 
quick in quarrel — than the grey-bearded Doge. And 
his jealous honor had one very vulnerable point. 
He was an old man married to a young and lovely 
wife. Such was the man who stood, that night, 
amidst the bright assembly of his guests. It was, 
although he little dreamed it, the last scene on earth 
on which he was to look with peace of mind. 

Among the masqueraders was a certain handsome 
youth, a patrician of high rank, named Michael 
Steno. Steno had selected as his partner one of 
the Dogessa's waiting-ladies, into whose ears he was 
now earnestly employed in breathing vows of ador- 
ation. At length, he began to press his suit too 
ardently. The dame drew back, in real or feigned 
displeasure. The Doge beheld the little scene. With 
eyes aflame, he strode up to the offender, and com- 
152 



MARINO FALIERO 

manded him, in full view of the bystanders, in- 
stantly to quit the hall. 

Michael Steno was one of the favorites of the 
nation. He left the chamber; but his blood boiled 
at the indignity which had so publicly been put 
upon him. His oflFense — a trifling indecorum at 
most — was one which the intoxication of the hour 
might have excused. Raging with resentment, he 
wandered aimlessly about the place. At length, 
whether by design or accident, he found himself 
alone in the great senate-hall — a hall which our 
imagination peoples with immortal phantoms; the 
ball where Portia pleaded, where Shylock whetted 
his keen knife, and where Othello taught another 
Doge and senate the charms which had won the 
heart of Desdemona. 

The hall, when Steno entered it, was lonely and 
unlighted. Around the semicircle at the upper end 
were set the seats of honor of the senators, arrayed 
on each side of the Doge's throne. Steno, smitten 
with a thought of vengeance, went forward in the 
dusky light, and with a piece of chalk, such as the 
dancers used to prevent their shoes from slipping 
on the glassy floors, wrote up a dozen words, in 
staring characters, across the Doge's throne. That 
done, he stole away. 

The masque broke up; the guests departed; and 
Steno's handiwork remained undiscovered. But 
early the next morning an official of the palace, on 
entering the senate-chamber, was stunned with 
horror and amazement at the sight of this inscrip- 
tion, chalked across the throne in letters a foot 
long: "The Doge has a lovely wife — but she is not 
for him." The man, half-scared out of his senses, 
went instantly to seek his master. Faliero hastened 
to the council-chamber, and read with his own eyes 
the startling words. What truth there was in Steno's 
innuendo is not known; it was in all likelihood 
153 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

groundless, and the result of pique; but the pois- 
oned arrow of his vengeance struck the mark. The 
effect of such an insult upon such a mind is not 
to be described. Shj^^lock raging against Jessica — 
Lear cursing in the tempest- -are but faint and 
feeble types of Faliero as he looked upon the 
writing on the throne. 

It was not difficult to guess his enemy. An officer 
was instantly sent out, and Michael Steno was ar- 
rested. A tribunal of the Forty was convened 
with speed; and the culprit was brought up before 
his peers. Their task was easy. Steno instantly 
admitted his offense, left the facts to answer for 
themselves, and stood for judgment with a certain 
nonchalance which was not without an air of dignity. 

The court passed sentence of two months' impris- 
onment, to be followed by a j^ear of exile. The 
decree was certainly not too severe; for the fault 
was gross and glaring. Yet the act had been a 
freak of passing passion; the provocation had been 
cruel; and the confession had been frank and open. 
Nor was the punishment a light one. A patrician 
locked up in a dungeon-cell suffered, in wounded 
honor, far more than in privation; and a year of 
exile was a bitter penance. On the whole, fairly 
weighed, the sentence of the Signory hardly seems 
to have erred grossly on the side of mercy. But 
the Doge was blind with anger. He appears to 
have taken it for granted that his insulter would 
lose his head. The verdict stung him to the quick. 
Instantly his rage was turned from Steno to the 
Signory — to those false and wicked judges who had, 
in order to protect their fellow, flagrantly betrayed 
their trust. The white heat of his passion was of 
a kind of which the colder races of the North can 
hardly dream. In one moment the entire patrician 
order became transfigured, in his eyes, to the like- 
ness of a single mighty foe. 
154 



MARINO FALIERO 

No foe, however mighty, had ever yet opposed 
him with success. But now, for the first time in his 
long life, he found himself confronted by an adver- 
sary more powerful than himself. The sense of 
impotence increased his frenzy. His rage became 
the image of Caligula's, when he wished that the 
Roman people had a single head, that he might cut 
it oflF. But with what weapon could he hope to 
strike that many-headed Hydra, the Signory of 
V^enice ? 

In this temper he was brooding in his chamber, 
that same evening, gloomy and alone, when a man 
came panting to the palace gates, and desired to see 
liim on a case of justice. The Doge bade him be 
shown in; and speedily a startling figure stood be- 
fore him. The man's dress was a plebeian's, torn 
and ruffled; the blood was streaming down his face; 
and the fierceness of his passion shook him like an 
aspen, as he burst into a flood of angry speech. His 
name was Israel Bertuccio; he was a workman in the 
arsenal; he had quarreled with a certain noble of 
high rank, who had struck him in the face. And he 
appealed for justice. 

"Justice !" said the Doge, with bitter emphasis, 
"Justice against a member of the Signory ! I cannot 
gain it for myself." 

"Then/' said Bertuccio, fiercely, "We must avenge 
ourselves — as I will." And he turned to leave the 
chamber. 

The man's implacable resentment struck in with 
the Doge's humor. He called him back, encouraged 
him to speak, and presently discovered, with a fierce 
delight, that chance had put a weapon in his hands. 
Bertuccio was a member of a secret brotherhood, 
which held the Signory in deadly hatred. A thou- 
sand fiery spirits of the lower class, stung to mad- 
ness by a sense of wrongs, were ripe and ready for 
revolt. Faliero heard this news with glittering eyes. 
155 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

A gigantic scheme of vengeance rose before him. 
Bertuccio's horde of plotters might be used; and he 
resolved to use it. 

Anger, like misery, acquaints a man with strange 
companions. Hours went by; and still the pair of 
strange associates sat together in the Doge's cham- 
ber, deep in consultation. When at length Bertuccio 
left the palace, it was late at night; and he was 
imder an engagement to return in secret on the 
night succeeding. 

Night came; and Bertuccio, bringing with him a 
companion, stole up the Doge's private stair. This 
companion was Philippo Calendaro, a sculptor em- 
ployed upon the palace buildings. The Doge, 
attended by his nephew, Bertuce Faliero, was wait- 
ing for them. These four men sat down together, 
and drew up between them the details of the most 
tremendous scheme of vengeance that ever filled the 
brain of man. 

Sixteen men, the fieriest spirits of the league, 
were first selected for the part of leaders. Each 
leader was to be assured of sixty followers, deter- 
mined and well armed. At sunrise on the day 
appointed, the great bell of St. Mark's — the bell 
which never sounded except by order of the Doge 
— was to peal a loud alarm; and at that signal, the 
sixteen parties of conspirators, issuing from their 
posts in various quarters of the city, were to flock 
together to St. Mark's, crying aloud that the 
Genoese fleet had been descried at sea. Then, as 
the senators, roused by the tumult and summoned 
by the bell, came hastily to council, they were to 
be assailed in the Piazza, and cut down to the last 
man. 

Such was the Doge's scheme; a scheme without 
a parallel in history; a plot in which a gray patri- 
cian, crowned with age and honors, linked himself 
with desperadoes against the lives of his 3wn peers, 
156 



MARINO FALIERO 

of men with whom for more than half a century 
he had lived in close and friendly intercourse, with 
whom he had drunk and feasted, sat in conference 
and bled in battle. Anger, said the wise Greek, is 
a brief madness. The annals of the world contain 
no stranger instance than the plot of Faliero of the 
madness which is anger in excess. 

Three days were judged sufficient to complete 
all preparations. It was then the 11th of April. 
The hour of sunrise, April the 15th, was appointed 
for the execution of the design. Bertuccio and 
Calendaro went instantly to work. During the next 
three days they toiled with speed and secrecy. The 
leaders were selected ; the bands of myrmidons were 
drilled and armed; the places of assembly were 
arranged. If all proved true, the hours of the 
proud Signory were numbered. And the hearts of 
the conspirators beat high. 

But there was one exception. One of their num- 
ber was tormented by a conscience which would not 
let him rest. This man was named Bertrando. By 
trade he was a furrier; and among the nobles who 
had brought his sable-skins and robes of ermine the 
chief was Niccolo Lioni, a member of the Senate. 
Lioni had not only bought Bertrando's furs, but had 
shown him many favors; and Bertrando at this 
crisis desired in gratitude to warn his patron of the 
deadly peril that hung over him. But Bertrando 
trembled to convey his warning. P^yes jealous of a 
sign of wavering were around him; the knives of a 
himdred desperadoes were ready, at an inkling of 
his purpose, to plunge into his heart. Fifty times a 
day he strove to screw his courage to the sticking- 
place, and to face the hazard of discovery. But 
time flew by; the day before the enterprise arrived; 
the sun set — the sun which at his next arising was 
to behold the stones of the Piazza heaped with 
corpses and crimson with the noblest blood in 
, 157 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

VenicCo And still Bertrando quaked and vacillated. 

Midnight came; and now in a few flying hours I 
the deed would be accomplished. Bertuccio, Calen- 
daro, and the other leaders were at the waiting- 
places with their gangs. Bertuce Faliero, watching 
for the sun to peer above the gray lagoons, was 
ready in the turret of St. Mark's to wake the voice 
of the great bell. The Doge himself was in his 
own apartment — waiting in sleepless solitude for the 
signal which should sound the hour of his revenge. 

At last the waverer had fixed his purpose. Ber- i 
trando, muffled in a cloak and a slouched hat, aghast 
lest a fellow-plotter should espy him, crept along 
the byways of the city to Lioni's door. Lioni, when 
Bertrando reached his palace, had not yet retired to 
rest. A visit at that hour surprised him. He bade 
his men admit the visitor, but to linger within call 
in case of need; and Bertrando, slouched and muf- 
fled to the eyes, was accordingly ushered into the 
apartment. He paused till they were left alone ; and 
then, with all the mystery of an oracle, gave forth 
his voice of warning. "My Lord," he said, "it is 
Bertrando come to warn you. Ask me no questions 
— I can answer none. But as you love your life, 
let nothing tempt you to go forth to-morrow." 

If Bertrando expected his hearer to rest satisfied 
with such a warning, his ignorance of human nature 
must have been surprising. I^ioni, as was to be i 
expected, instantly poured forth a stream of ques- 
tions. What was the threatened danger? Why was 
this need of mystery? Was there treason in the 
wind? Bertrando answered not a word, but turned 
away and would have left the room. But he mis- 
took his patron's character in expecting to escape 
so easily. Lioni's suspicions were now wide awake. 
He raised his voice; his lackeys seized the conspira- 
tor as he made his exit, and brought him back a 
prisoner. "Come, Bertrando," said Lioni, "speak no 
158 



MARINO FALIKRO 

riddles. I must know all the windings of this mys- 
tery before I let you go." 

Bertrando, thus finding himself taken, resolved 
to make a virtue of necessity. He bargained, not 
only for his safety, but to be well rewarded for his 
service. If he turned king's evidence to save the 
State, it was but just that he should have his recom- 
pense. Lioni gave his pledge ; and Bertrando, throw- 
ing off his air of mystery, told everything he knew. 

Lioni listened in amazement. There was not an 
instant to be lost. Leaving Bertrando still a pris- 
oner, he drew his mantle round him, and hurried 
forth into the night. He first aroused another 
senator, named Gradenigo; and the pair then stole 
together to the house of Marc Conaro. These three 
nobles, creeping stealthily as thieves from house to 
house, rapidly roused all the members of the Coun- 
cil. They assembled, in the dead of night, in a 
chamber in the Convent of St. Saviour's. Bertrando 
was brought in; and the Signory of Venice heard, 
with inexpressible amazement, of the sword that had 
been hanging by a thread above their heads. 

All had been done so quietly that none of the 
conspirators had received the least alarm. It was 
now near morning; already a crimson tinge was 
glowing in the east. Two bands of guards were 
instantly sent out; one to the Doge's palace, the 
other to St. Mark's Tower. 

The Doge was sitting, at that breathless hour, 
alone in his apartment, straining his ears for the 
expected bell. The signal of alarm delayed to 
sound; but as he vainly listened for its summons, 
another sound struck on his ear — a sound that 
checked the current of his blood. It was the tramp 
of men-at-arms along the corridor outside his cham- 
ber. In a moment more, the door flew open, and 
he was in the grasp of soldiers. 

And all was lost; and hope had vanished in an 
159 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

instant; and all that now remained was to endure 
with lofty fortitude what was to follow. The plot 
had failed ; the dream was • over. He was in the 
hands of those whom he had plotted to destroy. 

It was held fitting that an offender of such emi- 
nence should answer to his charge before a more 
august tribunal than the hasty council gathered at 
the Convent of St. Saviour's. His captors therefore 
left him, for the time, alone in his own chamber, 
the door of which was kept by a strong guard, 
there to experience, in the sense of failure, an expia- 
tion which, to such a spirit, must have been far 
bitterer than the bitterness of death. 

Meantime, Bertuccio and Calendaro were brought 
in chains before the council. They had been seized 
among their gangs with weapons in their hands. 
At first, on being questioned, they refused to speak. 
But a rack was brought; the prisoners were 
stretched upon it; the rollers began to turn and the 
cords to tighten; and speedily, with gasps and 
groans, the details of the plot came out. When the 
coimcil had learned everything they wished, the 
ropes were loosened, and the culprits carried to a 
cell. But their respite was of short duration. As 
soon as the day had dawned, a gibbet was erected 
in a gallery of the ducal palace overlooking the 
Piazza; and soon the whispering and excited crowd 
saw the conspirators brought forth to die. The 
bodies, left to hang like scarecrows, as a terror to 
all traitors, were long to be seen twirling in the 
wind. 

More than four hundred of their companions 
were arrested; but the punishment of these was for 
a while delayed. For now the great culprit was to 
come to judgment. The preparations for his trial 
at once began. A tribunal of peculiar dignity was 
formed. The Council of Ten, by whom all crimes 
against the State were tried, elected twenty of the 
160 



MARINO FALIERO 

Signory to sit in consultation with them. The court 
of thirty judges thus composed was known by the 
title of the Giunta. 

By the time that all was ready, it was evening. 
The Doge's door was opened ; he was conducted, 
in the midst of soldiers, to the hall of council; and 
the mighty traitor stood among the men whom he 
had schemed to massacre. It was a scene to put 
to proof the sternest spirit. The hall was crowded 
with familiar faces; among them many which, a 
week before, had worn the smiles of guests at his 
own festival. But every face was now morose and 
scowling. Eyes were glittering with the fire of 
hatred. Voices wexe muttering that he should be 
racked. There was not one among the thirty judges 
— there was, perhaps, not one in all the crowd of 
gazers, who, had the plot succeeded, would not at 
that hour have been a corpse. 

But neither altered faces, nor the imminence of 
death itself, could shake the fiery spirit of the 
Doge. In truth, no penalty could now disturb I'm 
— and death the least of all. His care for life was 
over. From the instant when the soldiers of the 
Signory had burst into his chamber, life had no 
more to offer. He had staked everythinar upon 
the hazard of the die— and everythin^r was lost. All 
this world and all the glory of it had vanished 
from him like an exhalation. He had fallen, like 
Lucifer, for ever from his high estate. He knew it 
well; and he looked round upon the faces of his 
foes with stern composure, as of one beyond the 
reach of hope or fear. 

The President of the Council rose, and demanded 
of the prisoner whether he confessed the charge 
against him. Faliero answered, with contemptuous 
brevity, that the charge was true. The interroga- 
tion, and indeed the trial itself, was but the form 
and pageantry of justice. His guilt was manifest. 
161 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

One of his accomplices had turned informer; two 
others had confessed upon the rack. To all intents 
and purposes, his doom was sealed before the court 
assembled. 

And nothing now remained but to proceed to 
judgment. The thirty judges were agreed upon 
their sentence. Every voice among the thirty was 
for death. The culprit was to be conducted to 
the landing of the Giants' Stairs, and there to be 
beheaded. The place of execution was not idly 
chosen. It was the spot on which succeeding Doges 
were, by ancient custom, invested, in the midst of 
pomp and splendor, with the robe and crown of 
state. 

But the sentence of the Senators contained yet 
another count. The place of the prisoner's portrait 
in the Hall of Council was to be left void, and veiled 
with black. More than five hundred years have 
passed since that decree was spoken; but still the 
line of painted Doges in the council-hall of Venice 
contains not one of so profound and strange an 
interest as the veil of vacant black which fills, in 
place of portrait, the space of Marino Faliero, 
Doge and Traitor. 

It was now late at night. The prisoner was con- 
ducted back to his apartment, where he was left 
alone with his confessor. The minutes of his life 
were numbered. At daybreak the next morning, he 
must die. 

At sunrise all the city was astir. The gates below 
the Giants' Stairs were closed and fastened; but a 
vast crowd thronged the Piazzetta, and fought for 
places at the grated bars. Thence could be plainly 
seen the landing of the topmost stair — the spot 
where, only a few months before, the head that now 
had stooped as low as death, had put on the Doge's 
crown. Now, all the place was draped and hung with 
black; and in the center stood the block and sword. 



MARINO FALIERO 

And now the sun was rising, and the hour was 
come. The mournful train emerged from the in- 
terior of the palace, and came out upon the landing 
of the, stair. First appeared the members of the 
Ten, the Senate, and the Forty; then came a guard 
of soldiers; and then the fallen Doge. His confes- 
sor, holding up the crucifix, walked at his right 
hand. At his left hand marched the headsman. It 
was observed that the prisoner still wore the ducal 
cap and robe. It had been ordered by the Council 
that he should carry to the scene of infamy these 
emblems of his lost supremacy. It was their pur- 
pose to afflict that haughty spirit with a last humil- 
iation. As he reached the block, the headsman 
stripped the sovereign mantle from his shoulders and 
plucked the crown of empire from his brows. At 
the same moment, the great bell of St. Mark's— 
the bell designed to sound the doom of his opponents 
— began to toll the knell for his own death. 

The Doge threw himself upon his knees and laid 
his head upon the block. As the headsman raised 
his sword, the gates below were thrown wide open. 
The crowd rushed in with tumult— and saw the 
gray head rolling down the Giants' Steps. 




163 



CHEVALIER BAYARD 

PIERRE DU TERRAIL was born in 14T6, at 
Castle Bayard in Dauphiny, France The 
house of Terrail belonged to the Scarlet of the an- 
cient peers of France. The Lords of Bayard, dur- 
ing many generations, had died under the flags of 
battle. Poictiers, Agincourt, and Montlehery had 
taken in succession the last three; and in 1479, when 
Pierre was in his nurse's arms, his father, Aymon 
du Terrail, was carried from the field of Guinegate 
with a frightful wound, from the effects of which, 
although he survived for seventeen years to limp 
about his castle with the help of sticks, he never 
again put on his shirt of mail. 

The old knight was thus debarred from bringing 
up his son as his own squire. But the Bishop of 
Grenoble, his wife's brother, was a close friend of 
Charles the Warrior, the great Duke of Savoy. 
When Pierre was in his fourteenth year, it was pro- 
posed that he should begin his knightly education 
among the pages of the Duke. The Bishop promised 
to present him. A little horse was brought; a 
tailor was set to work to make a gorgeous suit of 
silk and velvet; and Pierre was r'^ady to set out. 
On the morning of his departure all the inmates of 
the castle were called together, and looked with 
wonder and delight on the little cavalier, his cap 
decked with a gay feather and his eyes bright with 
pride, making his small steed gallop and curvet 
about the castle court. The scene is one to be re- 
membered. It must be borne in mind that those 
were the days of Knighthood, and that courage and 

In 
164 



CHEVALIER BAYARD 

after days, nothing so much delighted lords and 
ladies as the memory of little Bayard caracoling on 
his steed. 

His father gave the boy his blessing; his mother 
put into his hand a little purse containing six gold 
crowns; and Pierre set off beside the Bishop to the 
Duke's palace at Chambery. Duke Charles, with a 
company of knights and ladies, had left the banquet- 
table and was sitting in an open gallery, when Pierre 
came prancing over the sward beneath them. The 
Duke was enchanted. The Bishop's proposal was 
eagerly accepted, and Pierre was at once enrolled in 
the list of the Duke's pages. 

During six months the palace at Chambery became 
his home. The lovable and handsome boy soon won 
all hearts about him. The Duke with delight saw 
him leap and wrestle, throw the bar, and ride a 
horse, better than any page about the court. The 
Duchess and her ladies loved to send him on their 
dainty missions. His temper was bright and joyous; 
his only fault, if fault it can be called, was an over- 
generosity of nature. His purse was always empty; 
and when he had no money, any trifling service of 
a lackey or a groom would be requited with a silver 
button, a dagger, or a clasp of gold. And such was 
to be his character through life. Time after time, 
in after years, his share of treasure, after some 
great victory, would have paid a prince's ransom; 
yet often he could not lay his hand on five gold 
pieces. 

When Pierre had lived at the palace about half a 
year, the Duke made a visit to Lyons, to pay his 
duty to the French King. That king was Charles the 
Eighth, then a boy of twenty, who was making his 
days fly merrily with tilts and hawking-parties, and 
his nights with dances and the whispers of fair 
dames. The Duke desired to carry with him to 
his sovereign a present worthy of a King's accept- 
165 



ance. A happy notion struck him. He resolved 
to present the King with Ba3^ard and his horse. 

King Charles had a frequent custom of sailing up 
the Saone to Ainay, to the meadows where the tour- 
naments were held. There the young Bayard made his 
first appearance. The King, the moment he drew 
rein, cried out in ecstasy over his horsemanship: 
"Piquez, piquez ! — spur again !" The crowd of 
knights and equerries caught up the words; and, 
amidst a storm of voices crying "piquez," the bold 
and graceful boy flew round the field. That day 
he gained a new name and a new master. Thence- 
forth, all his companions called him Piquez; and his 
master was the King. 

Charles placed his new page Piquez in the palace 
of Lord Ligny, a prince of the great house of 
Luxemburg; and there for three years he continued 
to reside. During that time his training was the 
usual training of a page. But the child was the 
father of the man. Thoughts of great deeds, of 
tilts and battle-fields, of champions going down 
before his lance, of crowns of myrtle — such already 
were the dreams which set his soul on fire. 

At seventeen, Pierre received the rank of gentle- 
man. Thenceforward he was free to follow his own 
fortune; he was free to seek the fame of his dreams 
— a fame as bright and sparkling as his sword. 
And thereupon begins to pass before us, brilliant 
as the long-drawn scenes of a dissolving-view, the 
strange and splendid series of his exploits. He 
had not ceased to be a page ten days before the 
court was ringing with his name. 

Sir Claude de Vauldre, Lord of Burgundy, was 
regarded as the stoutest knight in France. He was 
then at Lyons, and was about to hold a tilt, with 
lance and battle-ax, before the ladies and the King. 
His shield was hanging in the Ainay meadows; and 
beside it Mont joy, the King-at-arms, sat all day 
166 



CHEVALIER BAYARD 

with his book open, taking down the names of those 
who struck the shield. Among these came Piquez. 
Montjoy laughed as he wrote down his name; the 
King, Lord Ligny, and his own companions, heard 
with mingled trepidation and delight that Piquez 
had struck the blazon of Sir .Claude. But no one 
had a thought of what was coming. The day 
arrived, the tilt was held, and Piquez, by the voice 
of all, bore oflF the prize above the head of every 
knight in Lyons. 

The glory of this exploit was extreme. It quickly 
spread. Three days later. Bayard went to join the 
garrison at Ayre. He found, as he rode into the 
little town, that the fame of his achievement had 
arrived before him. Heads were everywhere thrust 
out of windows; and a band of fifty of his future 
comrades issued on horseback from the garrison to 
bid him welcome. A few days after his arrival, he 
held a tilt in his own person, after the example 
of Sir Claude. The prizes were a diamond and a 
clasp of gold. Forty-eight of his companions struck 
his shield, and rode into the lists against him. Bay- 
ard overthrew the whole band one by one, and was 
once more hailed at sunset by the notes of trumpets 
as the champion of the Tourney. 

It is not in tournaments and tilts, however, that a 
knight can win his spurs. Bayard burned for battle. 
For many months he burned in vain; but at last the 
banners of the King were given to the wind, and 
Bayard, to his delight, found himself marching 
under Lord Ligny against Naples. 

The two armies faced each other at Fornova. 
The odds against the French were heavy, and the 
fight was long and bloody. When the victory was 
at last decided. Bayard was among the first of 
those called up before the King. That day, two 
horses had dropped dead beneath him; his cuirass 
and his sword were hacked and battered; and a 
167 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

captured standard, blazing with the arms of Naples, 
was in his hand. At the King's order, he knelt 
down, and received upon the spot the rank of 
knight. At one bound he had achieved the height 
of glory — to be knighted by his sovereign on the 
field of" battle. 

Bayard was not yet nineteen. His figure at that 
age was tall and slender; his hair and eyes were 
black; his complexion was a sunny brown; and his 
countenance had something of the eagle's. 

He was now for some time idle. He was left in 
garrison at Lombardy; and at Carignan, in Pied- 
mont, was the palace of the Duchess of Savoy, the 
widow of that Charles the Warrior who had been 
his former master. Bayard visited the Duchess, 
and discovered at her palace, among other old ac- 
quaintances, a young lady with whom, when he had 
been a page, he had exchanged vows of everlasting 
love. Three years had passed since they had met; 
but the former lovers still found themselves fast 
friends. After supper, while the rest were dancing, 
they talked of old times together in a corner. The 
lady had heard of Bayard's feat of arms against 
Sir Claude de Vauldre; and Bayard vowed that 
before he left the palace he would hold a tourney 
of the same kind in her honor. 

Next day, a trumpeter proclaimed his challenge 
through the neighboring towns. The prize of vic- 
tory was to be a lady's token, together with a ruby 
worth a hundred ducats. Fifteen knights took up 
the challenge; and four days later the event was 
held. Bayard, led by his lady in a golden chain, 
and wearing her ribbon flying from his crest, ap- 
peared, for the first time, in the noble vesture of 
a knight-at-arms — the figured armor, the white 
floating plume, the scarlet mantle, and the spurs of 
gold. A gorgeous company sat round the lists and 
watched the progress of the contest. The result 
168 



CHEVALIER BAYARD 

was the counterpart of the tilt at Ayre. Bayard 
overthrew all his assailants, won the tournament, 
and kept his lady's token. 

But fierier fields were soon to call him. Ludovico 
Sforza took Milan. At Binasco, Lord Bernardino 
Cazache, one of Sforza's captains, had three hun- 
dred horse; and twenty miles from Milan was 
Bayard's place of garrison. With fifty of his com- 
rades hfe rode out one morning, bent on assaulting 
Lord Bernardino's force. The latter, warned by a 
scout of their approach, armed his party, and 
rushed fiercely from the fort. The strife was fought 
with fury; but the Lombards, slowly driven back 
towards Milan, at length wheeled round their horses 
and galloped like the wind into the city. 

Bayard, darting in his spurs, waving his bare 
blade, and shouting out his battle-cry of "France,'* 
was far ahead of his companions^ Before he knew 
his danger, he had dashed in with the fugitives at 
the city gates, and reached the middle of the square 
in front of Sforza's palace. He found himself 
alone in the midst of the fierce enemy — with the 
White Crosses of Frances emblazoned on his shield ! 

Sforza, hearing a tremendous uproar in the 
square, came to a window of the palace and looked 
down. The square was swarming with the soldiers 
of Binasco, savage, hacked, and bloody; and in the 
center of the yelling tumult, Bayard, still on horse- 
back, was slashing at those who strove to pull him 
from his seat. 

Sforza, in a voice of thunder, bade the knight be 
brought before him. Bayard, seeing that resistance 
was mere madness, surrendered to Lord Bernardino, 
and was led, disarmed, into the palace. Sforza was 
a soldier more given to the ferocity than to the 
courtesies of war. But when the young knight 
stood before him, when he heard his story, when 
he looked upon his bold yet modest bearing, the 
169 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

fierce and moody prince was moved to admiration. 
"Lord Bayard," he said, "I will not treat you as a 
prisoner. I set you free; I will take no ransom; 
and I will grant you any favor in my power." 
"My Lord Prince," said Bayard, "I thank you for 
your courtesy with all my soul. I will ask you only 
for my horse and armor." The horse was brought; 
Bayard sprang into the saddle; and an hour later 
was received by his companions with raptures of 
surprise and joy, as one who had come alive out of 
the lion's den. 

Milan fell; Sforza was taken; and Bayard went 
into garrison at Monervino. At Andri, some miles 
distant, was a Spanish garrison under the command 
of Don Alonzo de Sotomayor, one of the most 
famous knights in Spain. Bayard, with fifty men, 
rode out one morning, in the hope of falling in with 
some adventure. It happened that he came across 
Alonzo, with an equal party, abroad on the same 
quest. Their forces met; both sides flew joyously 
to battle; and for an hour the victory hung in the 
balance. But at last Bayard, with his own sword, 
forced Alonzo to surrender; and liis party, carrying 
with them a large band of prisoners, rode back in 
triumph to the garrison. 

The best apartments in the castle were assigned 
to Don Alonzo. No guard was put upon him; and 
Bayard demanded only his parole not to escape. 
Alonzo, thus put upon his word of honor, broke 
his pledge. He bribed a rogue named Theode, an 
Albanian, to be ready with a horse at sunrise at the 
castle gates, stole out in the gray morning, and was 
off before the garrison was stirring. He had been 
gone two hours when Bayard discovered his escape. 
Le Basque, a man of great trust, strength, and 
spirit, sprang on a swift horse, spurred after the 
fugitive, came up with him two miles from Andri, 
as he was stopping on the road to mend his horse's 
170 



CHEVALIER BAYARD 

girths, and brought him back a prisoner. Bayard 
trusted no further to Alonzo's honor. The captive 
was locked up in a tower; and there, until his 
ransom, of a thousand crowns, arrived from Andri 
ten days later, he remained. 

Sotomayor, on his release, beguiled his friends at 
Andri with a completely false account of his cap- 
tivity. Bayard, he said, had used him badly — a 
statement which excited much surprise. A soldier 
of Bayard's garrison, who had been a prisoner at 
Andri, brought him the tidings of Alonzo's infamy. 
Bayard, though at that moment he was shaking 
with the ague, instantly dispatched a herald, charg- 
ing Alonzo to confess that he had lied, or to prepare 
to meet him in the lists of battle. Alonzo replied 
with insolence, and the combat was fixed to take 
plfice within twelve days. 

The day came; the lists were set; and Bayard, 
dressed entirely in white velvet, and attended by a 
crowd of lords and knights, appeared upon the 
ground. The contest was to have been decided 
upon horseback; but Don Alonzo, at the last mo- 
ment, declared that he would fight on foot. The 
antagonists, accordingly, armed with sword and 
dagger, and wearing no armor but a gorget and a 
cap of steel, advanced on foot into the lists. 

The clarions sounded; both combatants threw 
themselves upon their knees and breathed a prayer 
to Heaven; then rose, made the sign of the cross, 
and advanced towards each other. At the distance 
of a dozen paces they stood still, and gave the 
question and reply: "I^ord Bayard, what do you 
demand of me?" "I demand," responded Bayard, 
"to defend my honor." Then they met. 

The partisans of each looked on in breathless 

silence. It was a combat to the death between 

two skilful swordsmen; and for some time the strife 

seemed equal. All at once, Alonzo made a pass 

171 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

which left his throat exposed. In an instant, Bay- 
ard's weapon struck him, went clean through his 
gorget, and stood out behind his neck. A cry of 
rage and consternation went up from the Spaniards. 
The fight was over. Don Alonzo, with the sword 
still in his throat, hurled himself upon the victor, 
dragged him to the ground, and fell upon him — 
dead. 

The Spaniards, grim and scowling, carried oif 
their champion. Bayard, who would willingly have 
spared his life, looked sorrowfully upon the body. 
But his companions, wild with triumph, set all their 
banners flying and their bugles singing, and bore 
him off the field in exidtation. 

A few days later, the Spaniards, panting for 
reprisal, proposed to meet a party of the French in 
combat, for the glory of their nations. Bayard 
received the challenge with delight. On the ap- 
pointed day, thirteen knights of either side, glitter- 
ing in full harness, armed with sword and battle- 
ax, and prepared to contest to the death, rode forth 
into the lists. 

By the laws of such a tilt, a knight unhorsed, or 
forced across the boundary, became a prisoner, and 
could fight no longer. The Spaniards, with great 
cunning, set themselves to maim the horses; and by 
these tactics, eleven of the French were soon dis- 
mounted. Two alone were left to carry on the con- 
test. Bayard and Lord Orose. 

Then followed such a feat-of-arms as struck the 
gazers dumb. For four hours these two held good 
their ground against the whole thirteen. The Span- 
iards, stung with rage and shame, spurred till their 
heels dripped blood. In vain. Night fell; the 
bugles soimded; and still the unconquerable pair 
rode round the ring. 

But great as this feat was, it was soon to be 
succeeded by a greater. A few weeks afterwards, 
173 



CHEVALIER BAYARD 

the French and Spanish camps were posted on 
opposite sides of the river Gargliano. Between 
them was a bridge, in the possession of the French; 
and some way further down the river was a ford, 
known only to the Spanish general, Pedro de Paez. 
A stranger-looking knight than Pedro never sat a 
horse. He was a dwarf a yard in height, with a 
hump like a camel's on his back, and a frame so 
small and wizen that when he was hoisted up into 
his huge saddle nothing but his head appeared 
above it. But within this grotesque figure dwelt 
the cunning of the fox. Paez proposed to lure the 
French guards from the bridge, and then to seize 
it. And his stratagem was ready. 

Early in the morning the French soldiers at the 
bridge were startled to perceive a party of the 
enemy, each horseman bearing a foot-soldier on his 
crupper, approach the river at the ford and begin to 
move across it. Instantly, as Paez had intended, 
they left the bridge and rushed towards the spot. 
Bayard, attended by Le Basque, was in the act of 
putting on his armor. He sprang into the saddle, 
and was about to spur after his companions, when 
he perceived, across the river, a party of two hun- 
dred Spaniards making for the bridge. The danger 
was extreme; for if the bridge were taken the camp 
itself would be in the most deadly peril. Bayard 
bade Le Basque gallop for his life to bring assist- 
ance. And he himself rode forward to the bridge,, 
alone. 

The Spaniards, on seeing a solitary knight ad- 
vance against them, laughed loudly at his folly. 
Their foremost horsemen were already half-way 
over, when Bayard, with his lance in rest, came fly- 
ing down upon them. His onset swept the first 
three off the bridge into the river; and instantly 
the rest, with cries of vengeance, rushed furiously 
upon him. Bayard, not to be surrounded, backed 
173 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

his horse against the railing of the bridge, rose up 
in his stirrups, swung his falchion with both hands 
above his head, and lashed out with such fury that 
with every blow a bloody Spaniard fell into the 
river, and the whole troop recoiled in wonder and 
dismay, as if before a demon. While they still 
stood, half-dazed, two hundred glaring at one man, 
a shout was heard, and Le Basque, with a band of 
horsemen, was seen approaching like a whirlwind. 
In two minutes, the Spaniards were swept back 
upon the land in hopeless rout — and the French 
camp was saved. 

Bayard received for this great feat the blazon of 
a porcupine, with this inscription, Unus agmini.s 
vires habet — "One man has the might of an army." 

And still came exploit after exploit in succession 
— exploits of every kind of fiery daring. At Genoa, 
when the town revolted. Bayard stormed the fort of 
the insurgents, quelled the riot, forced the city to 
surrender, and hanged the leader. At Agnadello, 
against the troops of Venice, he waded with his 
men through fens and ditches, took the picked bands 
of Lord d'Alvicino on the flank, scattered them to 
the winds, and won the day. At Padua, during the 
long seige, he scoured the country with his band of 
horse, and frequently rode back to camp at night- 
fall with more prisoners than armed men. At Mi- 
randola, where he faced the Papal armies, he laid 
a scheme to take the Pope himself. A snow-storm 
kept the fiery Julius in his tent, and thus saved 
him. A few days afterwards the pontiff's life was 
in his hands. A traitor offered, for a purse of gold, 
to poison the Pope's wine. But Bayard was not a 
knight who would fight with poison; and the slippery 
Judas had to flee in terror from the camp, or 
Bayard would infallibly have hanged him. 

So far, amidst his life of perils. Bayard had 
escaped without a wound. But now his time had 
174 



CHEVALIER BAYARD 

come. Brescia was taken by the troops of Venice, 
Gaston de Foix, the "Thunderbolt of Italy," marched 
with twelve thousand men to its relief. Bayard 
was among them. At the head of the storming- 
party he was first across the ramparts, and was 
turning round to cheer his men to victory when a 
pike struck him in the thigh. The shaft broke 
off, and the iron head remained imbedded in the 
wound. 

Two of his archers caught him as he fell, bore 
him out of the rush of battle, and partly stanched 
the wound by stripping up the linen of their shirts. 
They then tore down a door, on which they laid 
him, and bore him to a mansion close at hand. The 
master of the house, who seems to have been a 
person of more wealth than valor, had disappeared, 
and was thought to be hiding somewhere in a con- 
vent, leaving his wife and his two daughters to 
themselves. The girls had fled ir.to a hay-loft, and 
hid themselves beneath the hay, but, on the thunder- 
ous knocking of the archers, the lady of the house 
came trembling to the door. Bayard was carried 
in, a surgeon was luckily discovered close at hand, 
and the pike-head was extracted. The wound was 
pronounced to be not dangerous. But Bayard, to 
his great vexation, found that he was doomed to lie 
in idleness for several weeks. 

According to the laws of war, the house was his, 
and all the inmates were his prisoners. And the 
fact was well for them. Outside the house existed 
such a scene of horror as, even in that age, was 
rare. Ten thousand men lay dead in the great 
square; the city was given up to pillage; and it is 
said that the conquerers gorged themselves that day 
with booty worth three million crowns. The troops 
were drunk with victory and plunder. Bayard set 
his archers at the doorway. His name was a talis- 
man against the boldest; and in the midst of the 
175 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

fierce tumult that raged all round it, the house in 
which he lay remained a sanctuary of peace. 

The ladies of the house were soon reassured. 
Bayard refused to regard them as his prisoners or 
to take a coin of ransom. The daughters, two 
lovely and accomplished girls, were delighted to 
attend the wounded knight. They talked and sang 
to him. In such society the hours flew lightly by. 
^i'he wound healed; and in six weeks Bayard was 
himself again. 

On the day of his departure the lady of the 
house came into his apartment, and besought him, 
as their preserver, to accept a certain little box of 
steel. The box contained two thousand five hun- 
dred golden ducats. Bayard took it. "But five 
hundred ducats," he said, "I desire you to divide 
for me among the nuns whose convents have been 
pillaged." Then turning to her daughters, "La- 
dies," he said, "I owe you more than thanks for 
your kind care of me. Soldiers do not carry with 
them pretty things for ladies; but I pray each of 
you to accept from me a thousand ducats, to aid 
your marriage portions." And with that he poured 
the coins into their aprons. 

His horse was brought, and he was about to 
mount, when the girls came stealing down the steps 
into the castle court, each with a little present, 
worked by their own hands, which they desired him 
to accept. One brought a pair of armlets, made of 
gold and silver thread; the other, a purse of crim- 
son satin. And this was all the spoil that Bayard 
carried from the great wealth of Brescia — the little 
keepsakes of two girls whom he had saved. 

The scenes of Bayard's life at which we have 
been glancing have been chiefly those of his great 
feats of arms. And so it must be still; for it is 
these of which the details have survived in history. 
And yet it was such incidents as these at Brescia 
176 



CHEVALIER BAYARD 

which made the fame of Bayard what it was, and 
what it is. To his foes, he was the jflower of 
chivalry; but to his friends he was, besides, the 
most adored of men. It is said that in his native 
province of Dauphiny, at his death, more than a 
hundred ancient soldiers owed to him the roofs 
that covered their old age; that more than a hun- 
dred orphan girls had received their marriage 
portions from his bounty. But of such acts the 
vast majority are unrecorded; for these are not the 
deeds which shine in the world's eye. 

Gaston de Foix with his army was now before 
Ravenna. Bayard rode thither with all speed; he 
was just in time. Two days after his arrival came 
the battle. Weak though he still was from his long 
illness, Bayard on that day was seen, as ever, "shin- 
ing above his fellgw-men." He turned the tide of 
victory; he tore two standards from the foe with 
his own hand; and he was first in the pursuit. 

He emerged from the great strife unscathed; but 
he nearly lost a friend. The horse which he was 
riding was a favorite called Carmen — a steed al- 
most as accomplished as the Bucephalus of Alexan- 
der, or as the speaking Xanthus of Achilles. In 
the thick of the battle, it was said, he would fight 
with fury, would shake a foeman like a mastiff, 
and break swords and lances with his teeth. When 
the fight was over, he would stand before the sur- 
geon to have his wounds dressed like a man. In 
this battle Carmen fell, and with two pike wounds 
in his flank, and more than twenty sword-cuts on 
his head, was left for dead upon the field. Bayard's 
sorrow was extreme; but the next morning, to his 
great delight. Carmen was found grazing, and began 
to neigh. The animal was brought into his master's 
tent, his wounds were dressed, and he was soon as 
well as ever. 

Two months after, Bayard was at Pavia. The 
177 



HISTOKIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

little troop with which he was then serving had 
there sought refuge under Louis d'Ars. The armies 
of the Swiss burst in upon them. Bayard, with a 
handful of soldiers in the market-place, held, for 
two hours, their whole force at bay, while his 
companions were retreating from the town across a 
bridge of boats. As he himself was crossing, last 
of all, a shot struck him in the shoulder, and 
stripped it to the bone. No surgeon was at hand. 
The wound, roughly stanched with moss, brought 
on a fever, and for some time he lay in danger of 
his life. 

When next he buckled on his battle-harness, it 
was to play a part in that renowned encounter 
which is known in English history as "the Battle of 
the Spurs." Henry the Eighth of England had laid 
seige to Therouane. Bayard was among the army 
sent to raise the seige. Lord Piennes, the com- 
mander of the expedition, weakly halted for some 
days in sight of the besieging camp. While he 
wavered and procrastinated. Bayard devised an 
expedition of his own. It happened that the Eng- 
lish had a dozen cannon, which the King had 
christened by the names of the Apostles, from St. 
Matthew down to Judas. Bayard mustered a small 
band, darted out of camp, fell on the party which 
had charge of the Apostles, and dragged off one 
of its guns. 

Meanwhile, the inmates of the town were starv- 
ing. At last a party, having Bayard with them, 
Avas told off to force a passage to the city walls, and 
to throw meat into the fosse. The scheme leaked 
out; a spy flew with the tidings to the English 
camp; and when the party, each man with half a 
pig behind his saddle, pushed forward to the walls, 
an overwhelming force of the besiegers fell upon 
them. They fled. Bayard was left with only 
fifteen men. He took his stand upon a lictle bridge, 
178 



CHEVALIER BAYARD 

and fought till all but three were killed or taken. 
Then, loath to sacrifice brave men in vain, he deter- 
mined to surrender. 

As he looked about him, in search of an officer 
to receive his svi'ord, he descried at some distance an 
English captain, sitting alone beneath the shadow 
of a lime tree. The officer, panting with exertion, 
and thinking that the fight was over, had thrown 
himself upon the turf beside his horse, sheathed his 
sword, pulled off his helmet, and was enjoying the 
cool air. All at once, to his amazement, Bayard, 
bursting through the swords of assailants, came 
spurring down upon him and bade him instantly 
surrender. The officer, having no alternative, gave 
up his weapon. 

"And now," said Bayard, as he received it, "take 
my sword; I am your prisoner. But remember 
that you first were mine !" 

By this bold and ready act he saved his ransom. 
The pair rode back together to the English camp. 
The case was laid before the King of England; and 
Henry decided, with kingly justice, that the officer 
was Bayard's prisoner, and that Bayard must go 
free. 

And now Bayard was to follow a new master. 
Louis the Twelfth of France died; Francis the 
P'irst received the crown; and Bayard, with the 
young King, marched to Milan, which the Swiss had 
seized and held. 

On Thursday, the 13th of September, in the 
year 1515, King Francis pitched his camp at 
Marignano, before the City of the Spires. No 
danger of attack was apprehended; the King sat 
calmly down to supper in his tent; when all at 
once the Swiss, aroused to madness by the fiery 
eloquence of Cardinal de Sion, broke like a tempest 
from the city, and fell upon the camp. The 
French, by the red light of sunset, flew to arms, 
179 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

and fought with fury till night fell. Both armies 
sat all night on horseback, waiting for the dawn; 
and with the first streaks of morning, flew again to 
battle. It was noon before the bitter contest ended, 
and the Swiss, still fighting every inch of ground, 
drew slowly back towards the city. It had been 
indeed, as Trevulzio called it, a Battle of the 
Giants. And the greatest of the giants had been 
Bayard and the King. 

That evening Francis held, before his tent, the 
ceremony of creating knights for valor. But be- 
fore the ceremony began, a proclamation by the 
heralds startled and delighted all the camp. Fran- 
cis had determined to receive the rank in his own 
l^erson. Bayard was to knight the King! 

In the days of the primeval chivalry, when even 
princes were compelled to win their spurs, such a 
spectacle was not uncommon. But not for ages 
had a king been knighted by a subject on the field 
of battle. Nor was any splendor wanting that 
could make the spectacle impressive. Nowhere in 
Ariosto is a picture of more gorgeous details than 
is presented by this scene of history; the great 
crimson silk pavilion, the seat spread with cloth of 
gold, the emblazoned banners, the heralds with their 
silver trumpets, the multitude all hushed in wonder, 
the plumed and glittering company of knights and 
men-at-arms. Such were the surroundings among 
which Francis knelt, and Bayard, with his drawn 
sword, gave the accolade — the order of knighthood. 

Bayard's glory had long been at such a height 
that hardly any exploit could increase it. And yet 
an exploit was at hand at which, even when Bayard 
was the actor of it, all France and Germany were 
to stand in wonder. The German Emperor, march- 
ing with a powerful army on Champagne, took 
Monson by surprise, and advanced against Me- 
zieres. If Mezieres were taken, the whole province 
180 



CHEVALIER BAYARD 

wduld be in the most deadly peril. And yet de- 
fense seemed hopeless; the place had no artillery, 
and the ramparts were in ruins. At this crisis. 
Bayard volunteered to hold the crazy city. "No 
walls are weak," he said, in his own noble style, 
"which are defended by brave men." 

With a small but chosen band he hastened to 
Mezieres. Two days after his arrival, the Count of 
Nassau, M'ith a vast array of men and cannon, 
appeared before the walls. The siege began — a 
siege which seemed impossible to last twelve hours. 
But day by day went by, and still the town was 
standing. Every day the ramparts gaped with 
cannon-shot; but every night, as if by miracle, they 
rose again. The defenders suffered from wounds, 
pestilence, and famine; but Bayard had put every 
man on oath to eat his horse, and then his boots, 
before he would surrender. Three weeks passed; 
and when at last the King arrived with forces 
to relieve the town, he found a few gaunt specters 
still glaring defiance from their battered ramparts 
against a hundred cannon and more than forty 
thousand men. 

Nothing can more strikingly describe the part of 
Bayard than the testimony of his enemies them- 
selves. Some time after, Mary of Hungary asked 
the Count of Nassau in disdain how it came to pass 
that with a host of troops and guns he could not 
take a crazy pigeon-house. "Because," replied the 
Count, "there was an eagle in it." 

It was Bayard's last great exploit. It had been 
his lifelong wish that he might fall upon the field of 
battle. And so it was to be. 

Early in the spring of 15:24, the French camp 
was posted at Biagrassa. I^ord Bonnivet, who was 
in command, found himself, after a prolonged re- 
sistance, at last compelled by famine and sickness 
to retire before the Spaniards. It was Bayard's 
181 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

constant custom to be first in an advance and last 
in a retreat; and that day he was, as usual, in the 
post of danger. It was for the last time. Friends 
and enemies were to hear, before night fell, the 
thrilling tidings that Bayard was no more. 

On both sides of the road which the retreating 
army had to traverse the Spaniards had placed in 
ambush a large force of arquebusiers. It was a 
weapon which Bayard held in detestation; for 
while skill and courage were required to wield a 
spear or sword, any skulking wretch could pull a 
trigger from behind a stone. From one of these 
hated weapons he received his death. As he was 
retreating slowly, with his face towards the foe, a 
stone from a cross-arquebus struck him on the side. 
He instantly sank forward on his saddle-bow. His 
squire helped him from his horse, and he was laid 
beneath a tree. His spine had broken in two places ; 
and he felt that he was dying. He took his sword, 
and kissed the cross-hilt, murmuring a prayer. 

The Spaniards were approaching. His friends 
made some attempt to raise him and to bear him 
from the field. But the least movement made him 
faint with agony; and he felt that all was vain. He 
charged his companions, as they loved him, to turn 
his face towards the enemy, and to retire into a 
place of safety; and he sent, with his last breath, 
his salutation to the King. With breaking hearts 
they did as he desired, and he was left alone. 

When the Spaniards reached the spot, they found 
him still alive, but sinking fast. The conduct of 
Lord Pescara, the Spanish general, towards his 
dying foe, was worthy of a great and noble knight. 
He bade his own pavilion to be spread above him; 
cushions were spread beneath his head. Soon all 
was over. It was the hour of sunset, April the 
30th, in the year 15:24, when he passed away. 
The Spaniards raised the corpse, and bore it with 
1S2 



CHEVALIER BAYARD 

deep reverence to a neighboring church. There it 
rested till the morning, when a band of his compan- 
ions, displaying a white flag, came from the French 
camp, and carried it away. It was determined that 
the bones of the dead knight should rest in his 
own land. The body, apparelled in white velvet, 
was placed in an oak coffin, and covered with a 
purple pall; a band of bearers was appointed; and 
the funeral train set forth across the mountains 
into France, By day, the bier advanced upon its 
journey; by night, it rested in the churches on the 
M'ay. At length it reached the borders of his own 
Dauphiny; and thence it traveled through a land 
of lamentation. From the city of Grenoble, when 
the bier arrived within a distance of a league, a 
mourning multitude came forth to meet it. Bish- 
ops, knights, and nobles, mingled with the common 
people, walked before the coffin to the great cathe- 
dral, where it rested for a night, and where a solemn 
requiem was sung. On the morning after, the body 
was borne, in mournful splendor, to the church of 
the Minims, and there committed to the ground. 

The grave lies just before the chancel steps, in 
front of the great altar. On the wall to the right 
hand, a graven stone records, in Latin characters, 
the deeds of the great knight; and above the stone 
his effigy, carved in white marble, and adorned with 
the collar of his order, looks down upon the grave. 



■^ 



183 



DANIEL BOONE 



i '/^F all men- 



ho passes for in life and death most lucky. 
Of the great names which in our faces stare. 
Is Daniel Boone, backwoodsman of Kentucky." 
Thus wrote Lord Byron in the early part of the 
last century of an American pioneer who, though 
never seeking fame, found it while doing what he 
considered his simple duty in defending the fron- 
tiers of his country against a savage and relentless 
foe, and who did more than any other man of his 
day to make the beautiful Kentucky country a land 
of peace, where the wilderness has truly blossomed 
as the rose. 

Daniel Boone was of English descent, his ances- 
tors having been settled for some generations at 
Bradwinch, eight miles from Exeter, England. His 
grandfather, George Boone, came to Philadelphia 
with his wife and eleven children in 1717. In Eng- 
land the family had been Episcopalians, but in 
Pennsylvania they were considered Quakers. Shortly 
after his arrival George Boone bought a large 
estate in Bucks County, and called it Exeter after 
the English town he had known so well in his youth. 
He continued to purchase land until his holdings 
included tracts in Virginia and Maryland, including 
a portion of what is now the District of Columbia. 
It is said that he laid out the town of Georgetown, 
and gave it his own name. Squire Boone was the 
father of Daniel, his wife being Sarah Morgan. 
Daniel, the most famous of pioneers, was born in 
Exeter on the 11th of February, 1735. 

Exeter, in the first half of the eighteenth century, 
184 



DANIEL BOONE 

was just the place in which to develop in the heart 
of the boy the love of nature and the pathless 
woods. It was a small frontier settlement, nestling 
in green forests filled with game that were hunted 
with great zest by the adventure-loving Boones. 
From time to time an Indian war party headed out 
from the forest, hunting with equal zest some white 
inhabitant of the flourishing village of Exeter. The 
town in Boone's boyhood was composed almost en- 
tirely of log houses, placed near which, at points 
of vantage, were two or three loopholed block- 
houses to which the inhabitants could retreat in 
times of danger. 

A biographer of Boone gives a graphic sketch of 
one or two adventures that illustrate what sort of 
a father the boy was to be to the man. 

"At Exeter they (the Boones) lived for ten 
years; and it was during this time that their son 
Daniel began to show his passion for bunting. He 
was scarcely able to carry a gun when he was 
shooting all the squirrels, raccoons, and even wild- 
cats that he could find in that region. As he grew 
older, his courage increased, and then we find him 
amusing himself with higher game. Other lads in 
the neighborhood were soon taught by him the use 
of the rifle, and were able to join him in his ad- 
ventures. On one occasion, they started out for a 
hunt, and, after amusing themselves till it was 
almost dark, they were returning homeward, when 
suddenly a wild cry was heard in the woods. The 
boys screamed, 'A panther ! a panther !' and ran off 
as fast as they could. Boone stood firmly, looking 
round for the animal. It was a panther indeed. 
His eye lighted upon it just in the act of springing 
toward him; in an instant he leveled his rifle and 
shot the beast through the heart. 

"But this sort of sport was not enough for him. 
He seemed resolved to go away from men, and live 
185 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

in the forest with the animals. One morning he 
started off, as usual, with his rifle and dog. Night 
came on, but Daniel did not return to his home. 
Another day and night passed away, and still the 
boy did not make his appearance. His parents were 
now greatly alarmed. The neighbors joined them 
in making a search for the lad. After wandering 
about a great while, they at length saw smoke ris- 
ing from a cabin in the distance. The floor of the 
cabin was covered with the skins of such animals 
as young Boone had slain, and pieces of meat were 
roasting before the fire for his supper. Here, at a 
distance of three miles from any settlement, he 
had built .his cabin of sods and branches, and shel- 
tered himself in the wilderness, and he was never 
so happy as when at night he came home laden with 
game. He was a tireless wanderer." 

What little schooling the future colonel was to 
receive was acquired in a few short months in the 
little log school house on the head waters of the 
Schuylkill. The schoolmaster was a wandering 
teacher from Ireland, who had appeared at the 
settlement, and was at once hired by the progressive 
inhabitants, to teach their children the rudiments 
of the three r's. The teacher seems to have been 
capable of instructing his students when he was 
sober, but his love of strong drink proved his ruin. 
When in his cups he would beat his scholors un- 
mercifully, whether they behaved or misbehaved, 
or knew their lessons. Boone, was the ringleader 
in a practical joke played upon the schoolmaster. 
A scuffle ensued in which the teacher was thrown 
down. The children at once voted themselves a 
holiday and w^ent off rejoicing. Boone was rebuked 
by his parents, but the schoolmaster received his 
dismissal. 

It is not probable that the lad shed many tears 
over the loss of his primitive educational advan- 
]86 



DANIEL BOONE 

tages. The woods called to him, and he joyfully 
took down his beloved rifle, called his dog, and be- 
came a hunter once more. "Hunting seemed to be 
the only business of his life." 

About 1752 Squire Boone removed his family to 
North Carolina, young Boone being then about 
eighteen. They took up their residence at Roman's 
Ford, on the Yadkin River, eight miles from 
Wilkesboro, North Carolina. The State still cherishes 
the memory of Daniel Boone, and claims him as 
one of her own illustrious sons, and the capital of 
Watauga County was named in his .honor in 1849. 
Daniel married in North Carolina the beautiful 
Rebecca Bryan, and the romantic story is told that 
on one dark night young Boone mistook the bright 
eyes of the young lady for those of a deer, a mis- 
take that nearly proved fatal, for he threw up his 
rifle to his shoulder in readiness to fire. Luckily 
the young lady found her voice and screamed, and 
instead of a tragedy there was, within a short time, 
a frontier wedding. 

For a while after his marriage Boone settled down 
to the quiet routine of farm work, varying it with 
excursions now and then in search of a bear or 
panther that had shown too much fondness for his 
small stock of sheep and cows. 

When the French wars were over and the Chero- 
kee outbreaks suppressed, the people of the eastern 
colonies began to turn their eyes longingly toward 
the West. Indians from beyond the great moun- 
tains had filled the border settlements with tales of 
the wonders that lay to the westward, the great 
hills, the herds of bufi'alo, numerous as the leaves 
on the trees, the fertile plains and clear rivers. 
AVhile the French had been in control any systematic 
exploration by the English, or any thought of mak- 
ing permanent settlements, had been entirely out of 
the question. 

187 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

Boone was determined to visit this unlvnown re- 
gion, and at the head of a company of hunters from 
North Carolina went as far as the vicinity of 
Laurel Mountain in Kentucky. Some writers be- 
lieve that he had hunted in that district the year 
before, as there was found in the valley of Boone's 
Creek, on the road between Jonesboro and Boons- 
ville, A tree bearing the following inscription: 
D. Boon 
CillEd A Bar On 

in ThE Tres 

yEAIl 1760 

The site of his old camp on the creek that bears 
his name, a tributary of the Watauga, is still 
identified by the people of the locality. 

Boone was exploring the country for a firm 
called Henderson & Company. In liis party was a 
relative named Callaway, "Callaway was at the 
side of Boone," writes Wheeler, in his interesting 
history, "when approaching the spurs of the Cum- 
berland Mountain, and in view of the vast herds 
of buffalo grazing in the valleys between them, he 
exclaimed : 

" 'I am richer than the man mentioned in Scripture, 
M^ho owned the cattle on a thousand hills; I own 
the wild beasts of more than a thousand valleys,' " 

Inspired by an account brought by the hunter 
Findley in 1767, Boone organized a party of six 
to explore the land now known as the State of 
Kentucky, It was to be a long journey, and the 
preparations took some time. It was in May, 1769, 
that he started, as he st?tes in his autobiography, 
"in quest of the country of Kentucky." His sons 
were now old enough to carry on the work of the 
farm, so that the intrepid hunter had little to 
worry him in regard to supplies for his family dur- 
ing his absence. 

Peck has given a vivid sketch of Boone's first 
188 



DANIEL BOONE 

view of Kentucky that can well be quoted here. 
"It was on the 7th of June, 1769, that six men, 
weary and wayworn, were seen winding their way 
up the steep side of a rugged mountain in the 
wilderness of Kentucky. Their dress was of the 
description usually worn at that period by all forest 
rangers. The outside garment was a hunting shirt, 
or loose open frock, made of dressed deer skins. 
Leggins or drawers, of the same material, covered 
the lower extremities, to which was appended a pair 
of moccasins for the feet. The cape or collar of 
the hunting shirt, and the seams of the leggings were 
adorned with fringes. The under garments were 
of coarse cotton. A leather belt encircled the body; 
on the right side was suspended the tomahawk, to 
be used as a hatchet; on the left side was the 
hunting-knife, powder-horn, bullet-pouch, and other 
appendages indispensable for the hunter. Each 
person bore his trusty rifle; and as the party slowly 
made their toilsome way amid the shrubs, and over 
the logs and loose rocks that accident had thrown 
into the obscure trail which they were following, 
each man kept a sharp lookout, as though danger 
or a lurking enemy were near. Their garments 
were soiled and rent, the unavoidable result of long 
traveling and exposure to the heavy rains that had 
fallen; for the weather had been stormy and most 
uncomfortable, and they had traversed mountainous 
wilderness for several hundred miles. The leader 
of the party was of full size, with a hard}^ robust, 
sinewy frame, and keen, piercing hazel eyes, that 
glanced with quickness at every object as they 
passed on, now cast forward in the direction they 
were traveling for signs of an old trail, and in the 
next moment directed askance into the dense thicket 
or into the deep ravine, as if watching some con- 
cealed enemy. The reader will recognize in this man 
the pioneer Boone, at the head of bis companions. 
189 



' HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

"Toward the time of the setting sun, the party 
had reached the summit of the mountain range, up 
which they had toiled for some three or four hours, 
and which had bounded their prospect to the west 
during the day. Here new and indescribable scenery 
opened to their view. Before them, for an immense 
distance, as if spread out on a map, lay the rich 
and beautiful vales watered by the Kentucky 
River; for they now reached one of its northern 
branches. The country immediately before them, 
to use a Western phrase, was 'rolling,' and, in 
places, abruptly hilly; but far in the vista was seen 
a beautiful expanse of level country, over which the 
buffalo, deer, and other forest animals roamed un- 
molested, while they fed on the luxuriant herbage 
of the forest. The countenances of the party lighted 
up with pleasure, congratulations were exchanged, 
the romantic tales of Findley were confirmed by 
ocular demonstration, and orders were given to 
encamp for the night in a neighboring ravine. In 
a deep gorge of the mountain a large tree had 
fallen, surrounded with a dense thicket, and hidden 
from observation by the abrupt and precipitous 
hills. This tree lay in a convenient position for the 
back of their camp. Logs were placed on the right 
and the left, leaving the front open, where fire 
might be kindled against another log; and, for 
shelter from the rains and heavy dews, bark Vas 
peeled from the linden trees." One day when 
Stewart and Boone were in pursuit of buffalo, 
pausing now and then to wonder at the great trees 
that towered high above their heads, they suddenly 
found that other hunters beside themselves had found 
this Eden of the New World. Without a moment's 
warning, before they could cock their guns, a party 
of Indians swooped silently from the cane brake, 
disarmed them, threw them down and bound them 
tightly with thongs made from the hide of the deer. 
190 



DANIEL BOONE 

Boone, up to this time, had seen but few Indians, 
and probably none on the warpath. He had been 
told by hunters that there were no Indians living 
in the eastern part of Kentucky, and that one was 
as safe as if he were within the palisades of a 
white settlement. While it was true that none of 
the savages had pitched their village tepees in the 
rich lands about the Kentucky River, it had been 
a debatable land in which war parties of the Shaw- 
nees, Cherokees and Chickasaws had fought one 
another until, even in their own tongues, it was 
called "the Dark and Bloody Ground." These war 
parties, however, in recent years had been seldom 
seen, and hunters had not been molested. Boone 
knew from border tales that in the end one of 
two fates awaited them, if they were unable to 
escape. They would either be put to death by 
torture, or adopted into tiie captors' tribe. 

The two captives took their misfortune with such 
apparent indiiference that after a few days the 
vigilance of the Indians began to relax, and the 
whites were less securely fastened when the party 
camped for the night. One evening, a week later, 
the Indians stopped for the night in the midst of 
a great cane-brake. They built a large fire and 
roasted some of the venison taken from the carcass 
of a recently killed deer. At last, after binding 
the two white men, the Indians threw themselves 
down to sleep, leaving a sentry, a somewhat unus- 
ual precaution, by the way, to watch over the camp. 
The sentry, however, was weary after the long and 
arduous march, which had included a long detour 
in pursuit of a herd of buffalo, and soon became 
drowsy. 

Boone, who had not allowed himself to sleep a 

moment since they had encamped that night, saw 

the sentry settle himself comfortably on a log. 

The Indian blinked drowsily at the fire, that had 

191 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

already begun to die down, leaving the thickets 
round about in deep shadow. Then the Indian's 
head fell forward on his breast, and he slipped off 
the log in a heap on the ground. He was fast 
asleep. 

Boone looked carefully for a few moments at 
each quiet figure, and saw by their regular and deep 
breathing that not one was awake or sleeping 
lightly. Carefully he worked at the thongs that his 
captors had put on him for the night, slipped them 
off, and stepping carefully over the Indians that 
lay between him and Stewart shook the latter 
gently, and held at the same time his hand tightly 
over his friend's mouth to prevent him from making 
a startled outcry as he came back to consciousness. 
When Stewart realized the situation, Boone told 
him in a whisper to, get one of the rifles, Boone 
had already secured his, and follow him with the 
utmost precaution. 

The two men now plunged silently into the depths 
of the thicket, crawled over logs until they reached 
an opening, and then, guided by the stars and the 
moss on the trees, started swiftly on the back-track 
towards the place where they had left their four 
comrades in camp. It was a long and weary jour- 
ney, through ravines and over hill tops. They lived 
on berries and wild plants, as they did not dare to 
hunt game, as the report of their rifles would have 
directed the Indians to their locality if they still 
hung on their trail. 

At last they reached the neighborhood of their 
camp. All was quiet, not a voice broke the still- 
ness. They must have gone hunting, thought Boone, 
and the two men hurried through the underbrush 
to the camp. Not a soul was to be seen. The camp 
had every appearance of having been plundered. 
Their shouts brought no answer but the frightened 
call of some forest bird. The little spring gurgled 
192 



DANIEL BOONE 

from beside the bark hut as if it had never beerr 
disturbed by hunter or lapping hound. From that 
day to this, the fate of Finlay and his companions 
has remained a frontier mystery, to be solved per- 
haps in the tales told about the fires of some 
distant encampment of the Chickasaws. 

Boone and Stewart, though depressed by the loss 
of their comrades, resumed their hunting, only 
hiding themselves carefully at night now that they 
had found themselves in such a dangerous neigh- 
borhood. In the winter, they were overjoyed by the 
sudden appearance in their camp of Squire Boone, 
Daniel's younger brother, and a companion. Boone 
saw two strangers approaching and catching up his 
gun called the backwoods challenge: 
"Hello! strangers, who are you?" 
"White men and friends !" came the reply. 
With a shout the brothers ran to greet each other, 
the anxiety of the moment turned to joy. Squire 
Boone told them their safety was feared for back 
in the North Carolina settlements, and that he and 
his companion had volunteered to discover what 
had become of them. They brought a supply of 
ammunition, of which the hunters were then greatly 
in need. They also announced that several times 
on their journey they had seen tracks made by 
Indians, though they had seen no warriors them- 
selves. 

The four men were hunting a few days later 
two and two, when a party of Indians attacked 
Boone and Stewart. After a fierce fire Stewart 
pitched forward dead, and his scalp was taken. 
Daniel fell back towards camp, firing steadily and 
keeping; the Indians at bay, until at last he came 
up with the other two men of his party. A few 
days later the hunter who had come with Squire 
Boone went off into the woods for a hunt, and was 
never seen again. The Boones searched for him, 
193 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

but could not discover any traces that would tell 
what his end had been. Years later a skeleton was 
found in the forests, which, from certain marks, 
led them to believe was that of the lost hunter. 

Daniel and his brother were yet unwilling to give 
up their hunting trij) that had proved one of such 
ill omen to six men who had come with them from 
the settlements. Daniel sent his brother back home, 
a distance of several hundred miles, for more am- 
munition, while he remained alone in the woods 
until he returned. He seems to have been fascinated 
by the loneliness, the danger of this unknown wilder- 
ness, where death seemed nearer than life itself. 
His brother was gone three months, but returned 
in July, 1770. During that time Daniel explored the 
center of Kentucky. No better account can be 
given of his life during this period when the 
l)rother hunted with him, and also after his de- 
])arture, than the one he has left us, phrased in his 
own quaint and picturesque language: 

"Thus situated, many hundred miles from our 
families in the howling wilderness, I believe few 
would have equally enjoyed the happiness we experi- 
enced. I often observed to my brother, 'You see how 
little nature requires to be satisfied. Felicity, the 
companion of content, is rather found in our own 
breasts than in the enjoyment of external things; 
and I firmly believe it requires but a little philoso- 
phy to make a man happy in whatsoever state he 
is. This consists in a full resignation to Providence, 
and a resigned soul finds pleasure in a path strewed 
with briars and thorns. 

''We continued not in a state of indolence, but 
hunted every day, and prepared a little cottage to 
defend us from the winter storms. We remained 
there undisturbed during the winter; and on the 
first of May, 1770, my brother returned home to 
the settlement by himself for a new recruit, horses 
191. 



DANIEL BOONE 

and ammunition, leaving me by myself, without 
bread, without salt, or sugar, without company of 
my fellow creatures, or even a horse or dog. I 
confess I never before was under greater necessity 
of exercising philosophy and fortitude. A few days 
I passed uncomfortably. The idea of a beloved 
wife and family, and their anxiety on account of 
my absence and exposed situation made sensible 
impressions on my heart. A thousand dreadful 
apprehensions presented themselves to my view, and 
had undoubtedly disposed me to melancholy if 
further indulged. 

"One day I undertook a tour through the country, 
and the diversity and beauties of nature I met with 
in this charming season expelled every gloomy and 
vexatious thought. Just at the close of day the 
gentle gales retired, and left the place to the dis- 
posal of a profound calm. Not a breeze shook the 
most tremulous leaf. I had gained the summit of 
a commanding ridge, and, looking round w^ith de- 
light, beheld the ample plains, the beauteous tracts 
below. On the other hand I surveyed the famous 
river Ohio, that rolled in silent dignity, marking the 
western boundary of Kentucky. At a vast distance 
I beheld the mountains lift their venerable brows 
and penetrate the clouds. All things were still. I 
kindled a fire near a fountain of sweet water, and 
feasted on the loin of a buck, which a few hours 
before I had killed. The fallen shades of night 
soon overspread the whole hemisphere, and the earth 
seemed to gape after the hovering moisture. My 
roving excursion this day had fatigued my body, 
and diverted my imagination. I laid me down to 
sleep, and I awoke not until the sun had chased 
away the night. I continued this tour, and in a few 
days had explored a considerable part of the coun- 
try, each day equally pleased as the first. I returned 
to my old camp, which was not disturbed in my 
195 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

absence. I did not confine my lodging to it, but 
often reposed in thick cane-brakes to avoid the 
savages, who I believe often visited my camp, but 
fortunately for me in my absence. In this situa- 
tion I was constantly exposed to danger and death. 
How unhappy such a situation for a man tormented 
with fear, which is vain if no danger comes, and, if 
it does, only augments the pain. It was my happi- 
ness to be destitute of this afflicting passion, with 
which I had the greatest reason to be affected. The 
prowling wolves diverted my nocturnal hours with 
perpetual bowlings; and the various species of ani- 
mals in this vast forest in the daytime were con- 
tinually in my view. 

"Thus, I was surrounded with plenty in the midst 
of want. I was happy in the midst of dangers and 
inconveniences. In such a diversity it was impossi- 
ble I should be disposed to melancholy. No pop- 
ulous city, with all the varieties of commerce and 
stately structures, could afford so much pleasure 
to my mind as the beauties of nature I found here. 

"Thus through an uninterrupted scene of sylvan 
pleasures I spent the time until the 27th day of 
July following, when my brother, to my great fe- 
licity, met me according to appointment, at our old 
camp. Shortly after we left this place, not think- 
ing it safe to stay there any longer, and proceeded 
to Cumberland River, reconnoitering that part of 
the country until March, 1771, and giving names to 
the different waters. 

"Soon after, I returned home to my family, with 
a determination to bring them as soon as possible 
to live in Kentucky, which I esteemed a second para- 
dise, at the risk of my life and fortune. I returned 
safe to my old habitation, and found my family in 
comfortable circumstances." 

Boone spent two years at his home on the Yadkin, 
but never altered his determination to take his 
196 



DANIEL BOONE 

family to settle in Kentucky at the first opportunity. 
He sold his farm for enough to pay the expenses 
of his new venture, and in September, 1774, Boone, 
with his wife and children and his brother Squire 
Boone, started on the journey that was to result in 
the foundation of a State. They drove their cattle 
and sheep with them, and their baggage was carried 
on pack-horses. They were joined on the way by 
five families which numbered forty brave frontiers- 
men, a force that would be more than a match for 
any war-party that they thought they would be 
likely to encounter. But they were not to pass 
beyond the mountains without trouble. Near Cum- 
berland Gap the rear guard, who were in charge of 
the cattle, was attacked by redskins, and six of the 
frontiersmen killed. The main body was six miles 
in advance, but heard the firing and returned, beat 
off the attackers, and recovered their cattle, which 
had begun to scatter in the woods. Among the slain 
was a son of Boone. The party now returned forty 
miles and settled temporarily on the banks of the 
Clinch River. This was in obedience to the wishes 
of the majority, as Boone and his brother Squire 
wished to push on, even if they were to fight Indians 
on the way. The attack proved to be one of the 
forerunners of the bloody border conflict known as 
"Dunmore's War," from the Governor of Virginia 
who directed the colonial forces. 

Boone, at the order of the Governor, took a party 
of surveyers to the falls of the Ohio. On his return 
he was made commander of three frontier garrisons, 
with a commission as Captain, his first military 
title. The war ended with the defeat of the Indians 
at Point Pleasant. They sued for peace, and gave 
up all claim to Kentucky. 

Boone was now one of the noted men of the 
frontier country. His reports of the beauties of 
the Kentucky country had spread all over the Caro- 
197 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

linas and Virginia, and land companies were formed 
to make settlements. The largest was under Colonel 
Henderson. Boone, as his commissioner, purchased 
all land claims of the Indians to the vast tract be- 
tween the Kentucky, Cumberland and Ohio Rivers. 
He took charge of the first party of settlers, and, 
after a dangerous march, during which several of 
his men were killed and a number wounded, reached 
the banks of the Kentucky River in April, 1775. 
He built a fort called Boonesborough, the first set- 
tlement in Kentucky, and which was destined to be 
one of the most famous fortresses during the Indian 
wars in that region. 

"It was situated adjacent to the river, with one 
of the angles resting on its bank near the water, 
and extending from it in the form of a parallelo- 
gram. The length of the fort, allowing twenty feet 
for each cabin and opening, must have been about 
two hundred and sixty, and the breadth one hundred 
and fifty feet. In a few days after the work was 
commenced, one of the men was killed by the In- 
dians. The houses being built of hewn logs were 
bullet proof. They were of a square form, and one 
of them projected from each corner, being connected 
by stockades. The remaining space on the four 
sides was filled up with cabins built of rough logs, 
placed close together. The gates were on opposite 
sides, made of thick slabs of timber, and hung on 
wooden hinges." 

Boone gives in his autobiography a vivid account 
of the dangers the people encountered in the early 
days at Boonesborough. "On the fourteenth of July, 
1776," he writes, "two of Colonel Calaway's daugh- 
ters and one of mine were taken prisoners near the 
fort. I immediately pursued the Indians with only 
eight men, and on the sixteenth overtook them, killed 
two of the party, and recovered the girls. The same 
day on which this attempt was made, the Indians 
198 



DANIEL BOONE 

divided themselves into different parties, and at- 
tacked several forts, which were shortly before this 
time erected, doing a great deal of mischief. This 
was extremely distressing to the new settlers. The 
innocent husbandman was shot down, while busy 
cultivating the soil for his family's supply. Most 
of the cattle around the stations were destroyed. 
They continued their hostilities until the fifteenth of 
April, 1777, when they attacked Boonesborough with 
a party of above one hundred in number, killed one 
man, and wounded four. Their loss in the attack 
was not certainly known to us. 

"On the 4th day of July following, a party of 
about two hundred Indians attacked Boonesborough, 
killed one man and wounded two. They besieged us 
forty-eight hours, during which time seven of them 
were killed, and, at last, finding themselves not 
Hkely to prevail, they raised the siege and departed. 

"The Indians had disposed their warriors at this 
time and attacked different garrisons, to prevent 
their assisting one another, and did much injury to 
the distressed inhabitants. 

"On the 19th of the month. Colonel Logan's fort 
was besieged by a party of about two hundred 
Indians. During this dreadful siege, they did a 
great deal of mischief, distressed the garrison, in 
which were only fifteen men, killed two, and 
wounded one. The enemy's loss was uncertain, 
from the common practice which the Indians have 
of carrying off' their dead in time of battle. Colo- 
nel Harred's fort was then defended by only sixty- 
five men, and Boonesborough by twenty-two, there 
being no more forts or white men in the country, 
except at the Falls, a considerable distance from 
these; and all, taken collectively, were but a handful 
to the numerous warriors that were everywhere 
dispersed through the country, intent upon doing 
all the mischief that savage barbarity could invent. 
199 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

Thus we passed through a scene of suffering that 
exceeds description. 

"On the i25th of this month, a reenforcement of 
forty-five men arrived from North Carolina, and 
about the 20th of August fbllowing, Colonel Bow- 
man arrived with one hundred men from Virginia. 
Now we began to strengthen; and hence, for the 
space of six weeks, we had skirmishes with the 
Indians, in one quarter or another, almost every 
day. The savages now learned the superiority of 
the 'Long Knives,' as they called the Virginians, by 
experience; being out-generaled in almost every 
battle. Our affairs began to wear a new aspect, and 
the enemy, not daring to venture on open war, 
practised secret mischief at times. 

"On the 1st of January, 1778, I went with a party 
of tliirty men to the Blue Licks, on Licking River, 
to make salt for the different garrisons of the 
country. On the 7th day of February, as I was 
hunting to procure meat for the company, I met 
with a party of one hundred and two Indians, and 
two Frenchmen, on their march against Boonesbor- 
ough, that place being particularly the object of 
the enemy. They pursued and took me; and 
brought me on the 8th day to the Licks, where 
twenty-seven of my party were, three of them hav- 
ing previously returned home with the salt. I, 
knowing it was impossible for them to escape, capit- 
ulated with the enemy, and at a distance, in their 
view, gave notice to my men of their situation, with 
orders not to resist, but surrender themselves cap- 
tives. 

"The generous usage the Indians had promised 
before in my capitulation, was afterward fully com- 
plied with, and we proceeded with them as prisoners 
to Old Chilicothe, the principal town on Little Miami, 
where we arrived, after an uncomfortable journey, 
in very severe weather, on the 18th day of Feb- 
200 



DANIEL BOONE 

ruary, and received as good treatment as prisoners 
could expect from savages. On the 10th day of 
March following, I and ten of my men were con- 
ducted by fort}^ Indians to Detroit, where we ar- 
rived the 30th day, and were treated by Governor 
Hamilton, the British commander at that post, with 
great humanity. 

"During our travels, the Indians entertained me 
well, and their affection for me was so great, that 
they utterly refused to leave me there with the 
others, although the Governor offered them one 
hundred pounds sterling for me on purpose to 
give me a parole to go home. Several English gen- 
tlemen there, being sensible of my adverse fortune, 
and touched with human sympathy, generously 
offered a friendly supply for my wants, which I 
refused, with many thanks for their kindness, add- 
ing, that I never expected it would be in my power 
to recompense such unmerited generosity. 

"The Indians left my men in captivity with the 
British at Detroit, and on the 10th day of April 
brought me toward Old Chilicothe, where we ar- 
rived on the 35th day of the same month. This 
was a long and fatiguing march, through an ex- 
ceedingly fertile country, remarkable for fine 
springs and streams of water. At Chilicothe I 
spent my time as comfortably as I could expect, 
and was adopted, according to their custom, into a 
family, where I became a son, and had a great 
share in the affection of my new parents, brothers, 
sister and friends. I was exceedingly familiar and 
friendly with them, always appearing as cheerful 
and satisfied as possible, and they put great con- 
fidence in me. I often went a hunting with them, 
and frequently gained their applause for my activ- 
ity at their shooting matches. I was careful not to 
exceed many of them in shooting, for no people are 
more envious than they in this sport. I could ob- 
201 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

serve, in their countenances and gestures, the great- 
est expressions of joy when they exceeded me; and, 
when the reverse happened, of envy. The Shawnese 
king took great notice of me, and treated me with 
profound respect and entire friendship, often en- 
trusting me to hunt at my liberty. I frequently 
returned with the spoils of the woods, and as often 
presented some of what I had taken to him, expres- 
sive of duty to my sovereign. My food and lodg- 
ing were in common with them; not so good, indeed, 
as I could desire, but necessity makes everything 
acceptable. 

"I now began to meditate an escape, and care- 
fully avoided their suspicions, continuing with them 
at Old Chilicothe until the first day of June follow- 
ing, and was then taken by them to the salt springs 
on Scioto, and kept there making salt ten days. 
During this time I hunted some, and found the 
land, for a great extent about this river, to exceed 
the soil of Kentucky, if possible, and remarkably 
well watered. 

"When I returned to Chilicothe I was alarmed to 
see four hundred and fifty Indians, their choicest 
warriors, painted and armed in a fearful manner, 
ready to march against Boonesborough. I deter- 
mined to escape the first opportunity. On the 16th, 
before sunrise, I departed in the most secret man- 
ner, and arrived at Boonesborough on the 20th, 
after a journey of one hundred and sixty miles, 
during which I had but one meal. 

"I found our fortress in a bad state of defense; 
but we proceeded immediately to repair our flanks, 
strengthen our gates and posterns, and form double 
bastions, which we completed in ten days. In this 
time we daily expected the arrival of the Indian 
army; and at length, one of my fellow-prisoners, 
escaping from them, brought the information to us 
that the enemy had, on account of my departure, 
202 



DANIEL BOONE 

postponed their expedition three weeks. The In- 
dians had spies out viewing our movements, and 
were greatly alarmed with our increase in number 
and fortifications. The grand council of the nations 
was held frequently, and with more deliberation 
than usual. They evidently saw the approaching 
hour when the Long Knife would dispossess them 
of their desirable lands, and anxiously concerned 
for futurity, determined to utterly extirpate the 
whites of Kentucky. We were not intimidated by 
their movements, but frequently gave them proofs 
of our courage. 

"About the first of August, I made an incursion 
into the Indian country with a party of nineteen 
men, in order to surprise a small town of Scioto, 
called Paint Creek Town. We advanced within four 
miles thereof, when we met a party of thirty In- 
dians on their march against Boonesborough, in- 
tending to join the others from Chilicothe. A smart 
fight ensued between us for some time; at length 
the savages gave way and fled. We had no loss 
on our side; the enemy had one killed and two 
wounded. We took from them three horses, and all 
their baggage; and being informed by two of our 
number, who went to their town, that the Indians 
had evacuated it, we proceeded no further, and 
returned with all possible expedition to assist our 
garrison against the other party. We passed by 
them on the sixth day, and on the seventh we 
arrived safe at Boonesborough. 

"On the 8th, the Indian army arrived, being four 
hundred and forty-four in number, commanded by 
Captain Duquesne, eleven other Frenchmen, and one 
of their own chiefs, and marched up within view of 
our fort, with British and French colors flying, 
and having sent a summons to me, in his Britannic 
Majesty's name, to surrender the fort, I requested 
two days' consideration, which was granted. 
203 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

"It was now a critical period with us. We were 
a small number in the garrison — a powerful army 
before our walls, whose appearance proclaimed 
inevitable death, fearfully painted, and marking 
their footsteps with desolation. Death was prefer- 
able to captivit}^; and, if taken by storm, we must 
inevitably be devoted to destruction. In this situ- 
ation we concluded to maintain our garrison, if 
possible. We immediately proceeded to collect what 
we could of our horses and other cattle, and bring 
them through the posterns into the fort; and, in 
the evening of the 9th, I returned answer that we 
were determined to defend our fort while a man 
was living. 'Now,' said I to their commander, who 
stood attentively hearing my sentiments, 'we laugh 
at your formidable preparations; but thank you 
for giving us notice and time to provide for de- 
fense. Your efforts will not prevail; for our gates 
shall forevei deny you admittance." Whether this 
answer affected their courage or not I cannot tell; 
but, contrary to our expectations, they formed a 
scheme to deceive us, declaring that it was their 
orders, from Governor Hamilton, to take us cap- 
tives, and not to destroy us; but, if nine of us 
would come out and treat with them, they would 
immediately withdraw their forces from our walls, 
and return home peaceably. This sounded grateful 
in our ears; and we agreed to the proposal. 

"We held the treaty within sixty yards of the 
garrison, on purpose to divert them from a breach 
of honor, as we could not avoid suspicions of the 
savages. In this situation the articles were formally 
agreed to and signed; and the Indians told us that 
it was customary on such occasions for two Indians 
to shake hands with every white man in the treaty, 
as an evidence of friendship. We agreed to this 
also, but were soon convinced that it was their 
policy to take us prisoners. They immediately 
204 



DANIEL BOONE 

grappled us; but, although surrounded by hundreds 
of savages, we extricated ourselves from them, and 
escaped all safe into the garrison, except one that 
was wounded, through a heavy fire from their army. 
They immediately attacked us on every side, and 
a constant heavy fire ensued between us, day and 
night, for the space of nine days. 

"In this time the enemy began to undermine the 
fort, which was situated sixty yards from the Ken- 
tucky River. They began at the water mark, and 
proceeded in the bank some distance, which we 
understood by their making the water muddy with 
the clay; and we immediately proceeded to disap- 
point their design, by cutting a trench across their 
subterranean passage. The enemy, discovering our 
countermine by the clay we threw out of the fort, 
desisted from that stratagem; and, experience now 
fully convincing them that neither their power nor 
policy could effect their purpose, on the i?Oth day 
of August they raised the siege and departed. 

"During this siege, which threatened death in every 
form, we had two men killed and four wounded, 
besides a number of cattle. We killed of the 
enemy thirty-seven, and wounded a great number. 
After they were gone we picked up one hundred 
and twenty-four pounds' weight of bullets, besides 
what stuck in the logs of our fort, which is cer- 
tainly a great proqf of their industry. Soon after 
this, I went into the settlement." 

In 1780 the Indians came down in force on the 
Kentucky country. They were sent by the English 
Governor Hamilton to offset the daring expedi- 
tions of Clark. The Indian army numbered six 
hundred men, supported by two field-pieces. They 
halted first before the little outpost at Ruddles 
Station. It was in no condition to offer success- 
ful resistance and surrendered. The Indians, unre- 
strained by the officers who had accompanied the 
205 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

expedition, butchered or made prisoners at will. 
After capturing another wooden fort, they beat a 
hasty retreat. The prisoners were compelled to 
carry the burdens of their captors, and when they 
fell from exhaustion, they were at once toma- 
hawked. The whole frontier seemed ablaze, and 
Kentucky resolved to save herself. Clark was 
appointed commander-in-chief of the State Militia, 
and Boone one of the lieutenant-colonels, and the 
Indians were hunted without mercy, for they showed 
none. Boone was one of the officers that hurried 
to the relief of Bryant's Station when it was at- 
tacked by a large Indian force under Girty, a 
white renegade, who dipped his hands in a thousand 
crimes against his own race. The Indians were 
finally repulsed, with the loss of thirty men. He 
took up his march for the Blue Licks, marking 
their trail with strokes of their tomahawks as if 
inviting the relieving force to follow. 

The troops poured into the Station the morning 
after the siege was raised, until they numbered 
nearly two hundred. Colonel Boone had a large 
party from Boonesborough, including his brother 
Samuel and his son Israel. It was determined to 
pursue the savages without waiting for re-enforce- 
ments, although some were expected. The Indians 
set a trap for the pursuers, and, contrary to Colo- 
nel Boone's advice, a dash was made for the enemy's 
camp, which resulted in the fearful repulse at Blue 
Licks. Among the slain was young Israel Boone, 
who fought with great gallantry during the early 
part of that fatal day. Colonel Boone collected as 
many as possible of the retreating troops, and get- 
ting them into some order saved many lives. He 
met Logan's re-enforcements and together they 
buried the slain. 

For several years the Indians continued their 
depredations and Boone as often met them, some- 
206 



DANIEL BOONE 

times with a few of his neighbors, sometimes with 
a regiment. He became feared throughout the 
Indian country, imtil his appearance in battle would 
be instantly followed by a weakening of the Indians 
in his vicinity, and their retreat, unless they were 
greatly superior in numbers to Boone's force. 

Boone was rewarded for his military services by 
the State of Virginia, and he bought great tracts 
of land in Kentucky for himself and his sons. After 
the end of the Indian hostilities, he became a 
farmer, though never laying aside his rifle for long. 

Shortly before 1790 Colonel Boone lost the last 
of his extensive possessions in Kentucky. His farm 
near Boonesborough was taken from him by money 
sharks, who had juggled with the defective titles 
of his land. He moved in 1790 from Kentucky, 
the region that owed its very existence to his dar- 
ing and foresight, and made his home in Virginia 
near Point Pleasant, on the banks of the Kene- 
hawa River. Here he remained a number of years, 
tilling his farm and hunting when fall came on. 
Boone had heard from a party of hunters about the 
fertility and beauty of the land west of the Mis- 
souri River, and also, says one writer, "of the 
absence of lawyers," and he determined to try his 
fortunes in this favored region. Missouri then be- 
longed to Spain. The authorities had heard much, 
as had every civilized part of America, concerning 
the exploits of Colonel Boone, and the Lieutenant 
Governor of the Spanish Province, who lived in 
St. Louis, promised him lands for himself and his 
sons. Boone settled forty-five miles west of St. 
Louis, and was made military and civil commandant 
of the Osage District. He held the position until 
the country was purchased by the United States 
Government. Audubon, the famous naturalist, 
visited Boone in Missouri, in 1810, and has left us 
an entertaining sketch of Boone as he saw him. 
207 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

"Daniel Boone, or as he was usually called in the 
Western country, Colonel Boone, happened to spend 
a night with me under the same roof more than 
twenty years ago. We had returned from a shoot- 
ing excursion, in the course of which his extraordi- 
nary skill in the management of the rifle had been 
fully displayed. On retiring to the room appro- 
priated to that remarkable individual and myself 
for the night, I felt anxious to know more of his 
exploits and adventures than I did, and accordingly 
took the liberty of proposing numerous questions to 
him. The stature and general appearance of this 
wanderer of the Western forests approached the 
gigantic. His chest was broad and prominent; his 
muscular powers displayed themselves in every 
limb; his countenance gave indication of his great 
courage, enterprise and perseverence ; and, when 
he spoke, the very motion of his lips brought the 
impression that whatever he uttered could not be 
otherwise than strictly true. I undressed, whilst he 
merely took off his hunting-shirt, and arranged a 
fev/ folds of blanket on the floor, choosing rather 
to lie there, he observed, than on the softest bed." 

Boone was given ten thousand arpents of land by 
the Spanish government. He did not reside on it, 
a necessary qualification for holding, but which was 
dispensed with by the Spanish government. When 
the United States gained possession of the country, 
Boone's claims were rejected, and for a second 
time he found himself without an acre he could 
call his own, after a reasonable expectation that all 
of his necessities would be provided for. He pe- 
titioned Congress, and asked the Assembly of Ken- 
tucky to aid him. That body instructed the Senators 
of the State to look out for his interests. The 
claims, however, were neglected by Congress, but at 
last it voted him one thousand arpents, the amount 
any other settler was entitled to. 
208 



DANIEL BOONE 

Ten years before his death, age compelled him 
to lay aside his favorite rifle and take up less 
arduous employment. "His time at home," says one 
biographer, "was usually occupied in some useful 
manner. He made powderhorns for his grand- 
children, neighbors and friends, many of which 
were carved and ornamented with much taste. He 
repaired rifles, and performed various descrip- 
tions of handicraft with neatness and finish. Mak- 
ing powderhorns, repairing rifles, employments in 
pleasing unison with old pursuits, and by the asso- 
ciations thus raised in his mind, always recalling 
the pleasures of the chase, the stilly, whispering 
hum of the pines, the fragrance of wild-flowers, 
and the deep solitude of the primeval forest." 

In the fall of 1830 Colonel Boone, then in his 
eighty-sixth year, ended his lonely journey. Simple 
and trustful in his faith, he believed ever in a 
watchful Providence which had guided him through 
trackless wilds and untold dangers to the end. 

R. S. B. 




209 



JACQUELINE DE LAGUETTE 

AT Mandres, not far from Paris, stood, in the 
. year 161:2, a little house like a toy castle, 
with turrets and a moat. Its owner was a retired 
officer named Meurdrac, a soldier who had fought 
in more than twenty battles under Henri Quatre, 
but who had become lame with rheumatism and com- 
pelled to leave the army. He was now a man of 
forty-five, with a red beard, a huge mustache, a 
face tanned to parchment, and keen sparkling eyes. 
He wore, summer and winter, a buff coat, top-boots, 
and a rapier. His character was quick and fiery. 
His cane was the terror of his groom and lacquey; 
and he woidd rather have laid his head upon the 
block than have changed the least of his opinions. 

Monsieur Meurdrac had built himself a house at 
Mandres in order to be near the Castle of the Due 
of Angouleme, his oldest friend. When his house 
was finished, he looked about him for a wife. He 
chanced to meet at Paris a lady of twenty-five, 
good, lovely, and sweet-tempered. They married; 
and in the month of February, 1613, a little girl 
was born, whom they called Jacqueline. 

This child's life was destined to be distinguished 
from the common lot. 

She combined her mother's beauty with her 
father's fiery spirit. As she grew up, Jacqueline, 
like other maidens, stitched and spun, worked pic- 
tures on her tambour-frame, and woke the strings 
of her guitar; but her heart's delight was to fire off 
her father's musket, to practise with her fencing- 
master, to sw^'m across the river Yeers, or to mount 
her palfrey and scour the country like the wind. At 

no 



JACQUELINE DE LAGUETTE 

eighteen she had grown into a girl of much beautr 
— the admiration of rival cavaliers for ten miles 
round. On Sundays, when she went to church, the 
little churchyard glittered like a palace court, with 
the horses and white plumes of her adorers. But 
Jacqueline was modest. Her eyes were never lifted 
from her missal to shoot back a speaking glance. 
Admirers came in crowds to seek her hand of 
Monsieur Meurdrac; but Jacqueline declared that 
she would never marry, and the suitors were sent 
sighing away. At length she became known through- 
out the province as the Maid of Mandres — the fair 
one who had vowed to live and die unwed. But 
here the gossips were in error. These candidates 
were merely what the Prince of Morocco and the 
Prince of Arragon were to Lady Portia. Bassanio 
had not yet appeared. 

But it so happened one day the Meurdracs 
visited the Due of Angouleme at the Castle of 
Gros-Bois. Among the company was an officer 
whom Jacqueline had never before seen. His name 
was Marius de Laguette, a cavalier of eight-and- 
twenty, tall and handsome, who had just returned 
from the wars in Lorraine. He looked at Jacque- 
line and, for the first time, she blushed and trembled. 
They did not speak a word together; Ijut when she 
left the Castle the Maid of Mandres was no longer 
fancy-free. 

Some days later she was sitting at her window, 
when she saw her father returning from the chase 
of a wild boar. To her surprise and joy, Laguette 
was with him; the pair had made acquaintance at 
the hunting-party, and old Meurdrac had invited 
his companion home. The young man stayed two 
hours, gazing at Jacqueline and talking to her 
father. For three or four days after, he came 
every morning; and at last, as they were walking 
in the garden, he found a chance to speak to her alone. 
211 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

"Mademoiselle," he said, "I am a plain man, and 
cannot beat about the bush. I am here to tell you 
that I love you. I have often vowed that I would 
never marry; but the moment I beheld you I felt 
the folly of my vows." 

"I also," replied Jacqueline, "have made such 
vows;" and in a lower tone she added, "and I also 
have repented." 

It was arranged, before they parted, that La- 
guette should speak to Monsieur Meurdrac the next 
day. But their course of true love was not destined 
to run smooth. The next day came; Jacqueline sat 
watching at her window; but no Laguette appeared. 
Hours passed, and she was trembling with a thou- 
sand vague misgivings, when a farmer's boy brought 
her a billet from her lover. She tore it open; it 
told her in despair that he was ordered to rejoin 
his regiment, and had the sorrow of departing 
without bidding her farewell. 

Jacqueline at first burst into tears; but her lover 
was a soldier, and his honor was her own. To kill 
time till his return she fenced and swam, she shot 
the deer in the Due's park, she galloped her courser 
over fence and field. Three months went slowly 
by; the campaign ended gloriously; Laguette came 
home; and Jacqueline, with delight, beheld her 
hero at her feet once more. 

In the meantime, she had told her mother. Ma- 
dame Meurdrac gave the pair her warm approval; 
but her husband's humor was by no means certain. 
It was determined by the three in council that 
Lagouette should speak to him without delay. 

Both ladies urged upon the suitor the need of 
deference and soft speech in dealing with the chol- 
eric old man. Laguette promised to obey; but 
in truth, though gallant and frank-hearted, he was 
fiery-tempered. Hotspur would not have made a 
worse ambassador. And in this lay their chief peril. 
212 



JACQUELINE DE LAGUETTE 

Monsieur Meurdrac was in his study, engaged 
in casting up some figures with his agent, when 
Laguette knocked and entered, and, signing to the 
old man not to interrupt himself, took his seat in a 
corner till the business should be over. His visit 
was unfortunately timed. Monsieur Meurdrac 
hated to be disturbed at business. He continued 
his employment; but his attention was distracted, 
and his figures soon began to go astray. .At length 
he flung his pen into the agent's face, " bade him 
return later, and, turning with ill-coneealed im- 
patience to Laguette, desired to know how he could 
serve him. 

"Monsieur Meurdrac," said the young man; "I 
have come to ask for your advice. I wish to marry 
— if my income justifies my doing so." And he 
thereupon explained his prospects, which were good, 
but not magnificent. 

"Well," said the old man, "you should explain 
all this to the young lady's father." 

"Monsieur," replied the suitor, "you are he." 

The delicacy with which this news was broken 
did not gain its object. The old man answered, 
with forced courtesy, that his family were greatly 
honored, but that Laguette was there a week too 
late; he had promised his daughter to another 
suitor, and would not break his word. Laguette 
argued; but in vain. The tempers of both disput- 
ants began to rise. 

"No doubt," said Laguette bitterly, "my rival 
is a richer man than 1 am." 

"You are insulting, sir," said Meurdrac. "But 
let this suffice you — you shall never have my 
daughter. Leave the house, sir!" and he thundered 
down his fist upon the table. 

Then all was in an uproar; the swords of both 
flew out like lightning; Jacqueline and Madame 
Meurdrac rushed in screaming. While the old lady 
213 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

seized her husband round the neck, Jacqueline 
hustled her lover from the room. Laguette, with 
her reproaches ringing in his ears, rode off, vexed 
at his own folly; old Meurdrac was left raging 
like a madman; and the hopes of the two lovers 
seemed destroyed forever. 

Some days passed, and affairs were still in this 
position when Laguette was once more summoned 
to his flag. This time the lovers made a scheme 
to correspond — a friend of Jacqueline engaging to 
receive their letters. All further steps toward their 
marriage had to be suspended till Laguette's return. 

But in the meantime her father had no thought 
of resting idle. Laguette had not been gone a week 
when a letter came for Monsieur Meurdrac from his 
friend the Abbess of the Convent of Brie-Comte- 
Robert. He sent word aloud that he would call, 
together with his daughter, the next day. Jacque- 
line heard this message with a beating heart. A 
convent ! Did they mean to force her to become a 
nun? She plagued her father with inquiries; but 
he would tell her nothing. Early the next morning 
a carriage took them to the convent. The Abbess 
welcomed them in her apartment, in which dinner 
was laid out for several guests. Among the com- 
pany were three or four young cavaliers, one of 
whom her father greeted with surprising heartiness. 
A sudden light broke in on Jacqueline. She had 
been brought to take a husband, not the veil ! 

At the table the young man sat beside her, and 
pressed her with polite attentions. After dinner, as 
the guests were strolling in the convent-garden, 
Monsieur Meurdrac whispered that his name was 
Voisenon, that he was rich, and that he loved her. 
Among the roses and the hollyhocks the cavalier 
renewed his gallantries; but at night, as they were 
waiting for the carriage, she seized a moment, while 
her father was intent upon the horses, to inform 
214 



JACQUELINE DE LAGUETTE 

him of the truth. She was, she told him, already 
plighted to another. He might trouble her by his 
attentions, but he could never win her hand; and 
she appealed to his sense of honor. Voisenon re- 
plied, that he was not the man to urge a wedding 
against her will, however greatly he admired her. 
Jacqueline responded gratefully; and the two parted 
on the best of terms, as friends, but nothing more. 

Laguette was at that moment at the siege of 
Lamotte. Jacqueline, in her next letter, told him 
what had happened. She added that she ran no 
danger. But lovers' fears are keen; Laguette, in 
much disturbance, hurried to the Marshal's tent, 
gained leave of absence for a month, and hastened 
home. He visited Jacqueline and urged her to 
marry him at once in secret. At last she yielded, 
but on one condition — she would not leave her 
father's house until Laguette and he were recon- 
ciled. 

The marriage took place and the secret was well 
kept; but something in his daughter's manner 
touched old Meurdrac with suspicion. 

Jacqueline at last consented that the Due of 
Angouleme, who had assisted the young pair, should 
be asked to break the tidings to her father, and to 
endeavor to appease his anger. 

The Due agreed. A messenger was dispatched 
to invite the old man to step up to the castle. He 
come, suspecting nothing. Laguette was posted in 
an antechamber of the Due's apartment, where he 
could overhear what passed. The Due began by 
asking Monsieur Meurdrac for what reason he 
objected to Laguette. 

"For no reason," replied the choleric old gentle- 
man, "except that I detest him." 

"Come," said the Due, "be reasonable. He is 
your son-in-law; your daughter is married." 

The old man reeled back as if he had been shot. 
215 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

Then he burst into such a storm of fury that La- 
guette, fearing that Jacqueline herself would not 
be safe, rushed out of the castle, took a couple of 
horses from the stables, rode at full gallop to her 
father's house, bade her leap into the saddle, and 
carried her out of danger to his own chateau. '; 

Scarcely were they out of sight, when the indig- 
nant father came galloping to the door, inquiring 
for his daughter. A trembling lacquey stammered 
out that she had ridden away with Monsieur de 
Laguette. The old man, locking himself up in his 
own chamber, gave way to an access of fierce re- 
sentment which for a long time nothing could 
appease. 

But time is a great reconciler. Some months 
passed; and still, to Jacqueline's extreme distress, 
her father steadfastly refused to see her. Madame 
Meurdrac and the Due assailed him with entreaties 
■ — with reproaches; but in vain. But, although the 
obstinate old man held out firmly in appearance, in 
spirit he began to waver; and at last he wanted 
nothing but a fair pretext for yielding with good 
grace. In this position of affairs, the Duchesse of 
Angouleme fell ill. She sent for Monsieur Meur- 
drac, and besought him, as a last request, to see his 
daughter and forgive her. He replied that there 
was nothing which he could refuse her Grace. 
Jacqueline was in the next apartment. She burst 
into the room, and in a moment more was sobbing 
in his arms. 

Laguette then entered with the Due. The two 
disputants shook hands; but the interview passed 
off so stiffly that they were evidently far from being- 
reconciled. It was left for a freak of fortune to 
render them fast friends when every other means 
had failed. 

As Laguette, after the interview, was passing 
through the castle-court, he observed a group of 
216 



JACQUELINE DE LAGUETTE 

gentlemen belonging to the Due, who seemed to be 

exceedingly amused. He demanded what diverted 

them so highly. "Your reconciliation," answered 

1 one of them, who had been present; "to see you 

\ and Monsieur Meurdrac shaking hands ! you were 

like the couple in the comedy: 'we were reconciled, 

j we fell into each other's arms — and from that time 

I forth we have been deadly foes !' " And the\' 

laughed more boisterously than ever. 

Their laughter stung Luguette to frenzy. "What!" 
he cried, "am I and Monsieur Meurdrac hypocrites? 
Are we to be insulted by a pack of jack-a-dandies? 
I will teach you better. manners. I tell you that I 
honor Monsieur Meurdrac; I respect him — I esteem 
him." And in an instant he was rushing, sword in 
hand, against the whole fifteen. 

Monsieur Meurdrac and the Due came running 
to the spot — and the old man heard, to his infinite 
amazement, his son-in-law proclaiming at the sword's 
point that he honored and esteemed him. He 
whipped out his rapier in an instant, and darted 
to his side. The Due was forced to throw himself 
between the combatants. His authority at length 
appeased the tumult. The cavaliers apologized; but 
the insulted pair walked off together arm in arm, 
breathing forth execrations against the coxcombs 
who had dared to turn them into ridicule. At Man- 
dres they agreed to dine together. 

Such was the wooing and wedding of Jacqueline 
Meurdrac. Two centuries and a half have passed 
away; Jacqueline and her little world have long 
been dust; but here are the joys and sorrows of her 
love-story still vividly surviving. "The unfathom- 
able sea whose waves are years" has swallowed in 
its depths much mightier things; and this glimpse 
into the darkness of the past would never, in all 
probability, have been open to us, but for the ad- 
venture which was to make the name of Jacqueline 
21T 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
• 
familiar far beyond the village of her birth. And 
this brings us to the second of our scenes. 

Over the happy but eventful days which sue- i 
ceeded to the marriage of the lovers we pass to the 
year 1648— the year of the rebellion of the Fronde. 
All the great names of France took sides in the 
contending ranks of loyalists and rebels. Laguette 
threw in his portion with the latter, and rode away 
to battle under the banners of Prince Conde. I 

Jacqueline was left alone in the chateau at Suilly. | 

^ The vivacity of her spirit loved excitement ; and ; 
excitement, even in the village, was not wanting. 
Sometimes she was awakened at the dead of night 
by the noise of drums and trumpets, or • by the I 
church-bells pealing an alarm. Sometimes she was 
compelled to arm her servants, to turn her house 
into a fortress against a party of besiegers, or to j 
dash upon a band of foragers who were busy with 
their sacks and sickles in her cornfield. But, in 
spite of these diversions, she found the separation 
from her husband more than she could bear. One 
day she took into her head a wild resolve. She 
determined to ride off in search of him, and to tell 
him simply, when they met, that she had come to 
share all perils at his side. 

She immediately made ready for the venture. 
Without adopting, like the Maid of Arc, a helmet 
and a coat-of-mail, she presented none the less a 
gallant figure. She kept her woman's dress; but 
she wore, besides, long boots and gauntlets, a belt, 
sword, and pistols, a grass-green scarf, and a hat 
with three green plumes. Thus arrayed, and 
mounted on a fiery horse, with two armed servants 
riding at her heels, she cantered out of Suilly on the 
road to Paris. 

Although she was about to join her husband in 

the army of the rebels, Jacqueline, like most women, 

was a Royalist at heart. She burned to exert her 

318 



JACQUELINE DE LAGUETTE 

influence — the influence of love, eloquence, and 
beauty — to convert her husband to the royal cause. 
Nay, more. She and Prince Conde were already 
friends. Some time before, the Prince, while on the 
march through Mandres, had stopped for a few 
minutes at her husband's house, and had, on his 
departure, laughingly invited Jacqueline to become 
his aide-de-camp. What if she could win the Prince 
himself? 

But as yet her husband and the Prince were far 
away. And before she could be with them many 
things were to befall. 

As she now rode forward on the road to Brie, 
there appeared before her the advance guard of a 
band of rebels. The Duke of Lorraine was at their 
head. The men were loosening their swords and 
looking to their firelocks; for the scouts had 
brought intelligence of a troop of Royalists who 
were endeavoring to retreat across the river near 
at hand, and the Duke, naving twice their strength 
of numbers, made sure of cutting them to pieces. 
From the summit of a limekiln Jacqueline covdd 
plainly see the standards of the King. A sudden 
impulse set her blood on fire. She resolved to save 
the royal army by a stroke of woman's wit. 

She rode up to a captain of the rebel force. 

"Monsieur," she said, "I come from Gros-Bois, 
and can give you tidings of importance. A band 
of Royalists is lurking in the forest; this force is 
only a deco}'. Beware how you advance too quickly, 
or you will run your head into a trap." 

The captain bade her follow him at once into the 
presence of the Duke. Lorraine listened, and was 
much disturbed. The order of attack was counter- 
manded; and scouts were instantly sent out to 
scour the forests. While these were prying into 
brakes and dingles, the royal army gained the time 
they needed, crossed the river, and were saved. 
219 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

Jacqueline attempted to ride forward; but- she 
soon found out that she was watched. With a 
bold appearance, though with a fluttering heart, she 
pushed her horse towards a bridge which crossed 
the river. An officer commanded her to halt. 
"Advance no further, Madam," he said, "or I must 
bid my soldiers fire upon you." "Fire, then," said 
Jacqueline. "Heaven will defend me. I have served 
my country and my King." At the same instant 
she drove the spurs into her horse, and dashed 
across the bridge. A storm of bullets whistled round 
her; but by a miracle of fortune she escaped scot 
free. 

An hour afterwards she galloped into Paris. 

She learnt that Prince Conde and her husband 
were at that moment in Guienne. She prepared 
to follow them; but she had friends at Paris whom 
she wished to visit; and before she started all the 
town was talking of the trick by which the band of 
rebels had been cheated of their prey. Soon her 
part in the aifair leaked out; she was recognized as 
she was walking in the street, was carried off to the 
Palais Royal by some gentleman belonging to the 
court, and ushered into the presence-chamber of the 
Queen. Anne of Austria received her with the 
most signal marks of favor, and not only thanked 
her publicly for her service to the royal cause, but 
invited her to spend a week at court. Jacqueline, 
as was to be expected from a loyal subject, accepted 
with delight. She feasted in the palace-gardens 
under the shadow of the lime-trees, she angled for 
gold-carp in the Queen's fish-ponds. 

The week went by; and Jacqueline, attended by 
a guide, rode out of Paris on the road to Guienne. 
And then began a journey of adventures. The 
country, troubled by the civil war, was in no 
pleasant state for travelers; and so Jacqueline was 
soon to find. On one occasion she was seized by 
220 



JACQUELINE DE LAGL'ETTE 

a party of Royalists, who took her for Count 
Marsin escaping in disguise; at another, while 
riding on a lonely road, eight brigands started from 
a coppice, and bade her stand and deliver. These 
rascals went off with her horse, her valise, and 
every piece of money she possessed. Her guide 
had fled in terror; and thence she was obliged to 
make her way alone — as poor a pilgrim as a begging 
friar. But nothing could subdue her resolution. 
Sometimes she was able to obtain a ride for a few 
miles in a charcoal-burner's cart, or on a gipsy's 
donkey; but for the most part she was forced to 
trudge on foot. Sometimes she begged a bed at 
night at the cottage of some friendly rustic; but 
often she was glad to lie down, after a supper 
of black bread, to sleep in a granary among the 
straw. 

At last, one morning, after all her misadventures, 
she had reached the margin of a river, and was 
about to cross the vvater by a ferry, when suddenly 
the sound of trumpets and the roll of drums struck 
on her ear. A troop of cavaliers appeared, ap- 
proaching at a gallop ; the first among them was 
Prince Conde. 

"What, Madame de Laguette !" he cried, in 
wonder and delight. "Are you looking for your 
husband?^ — he is behind us — or have you come, as I 
desired, to be my aide-de-camp?" 

"Both, Prince," said Jacqueline, "if you will 
provide me with a horse." 

[ A horse was brought, Jacqueline mounted, and 
{ the band rode forward. A quarter of a league 
I before them a party of the enemy were lying in a 
I gorge among the hills. A sharp skirmish followed, 
I in which the Royalists were put to flight. A bullet 
: cut off one of Jacqueline's green plumes; and in 
return, although she could not bring herself to 
; shoot a Royalist, she shot the horse of their cora- 
i 221 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

mander with her pistol. Before the rider could 
shake off his stirrups, she rode up and bade him 
yield, 

"Yield," said Conde, riding up. "And yield 
your heart together with your sword, for your vic- 
tor is a woman." 

The aifair was over; the Prince's officers came 
crowding round her with congratulations; and the 
Prince himself declared that he would knight her. 
But amidst this storm of compliment she heard, in 
a familiar voice, an exclamation of surprise. She 
turned, and saw her husband, who had just ridden 
to the spot. 

Laguette's astonishment may be imagined. But 
he was a man to feel a proud delight in the posses- 
sion of a wife of so much spirit. The day passed 
off in feasting and rejoicing for the victory. 

But half of Jacqueline's project still remained 
to be achieved: it was her dream to win the Prince 
to his royal allegiance. Next day, she seized a 
chance to touch upon the subject. To her sur- 
prise and joy, she found her eloquence work 
wonders. The truth was, although she did not 
know it, that at the time of her arrival, Conde, 
owing to desertions from the rebel ranks, had al- 
ready determined to throw up the contest, and 
submit to the Queen's grace. But it pleased him 
to give his fair acquaintance the delight of think- 
ing that her power had won him over; and he 
succeeded perfectly. He made a show of holding 
out, but pledged himself at last to send in his 
submission. And Jacqueline had the pleasure of 
believing — a belief which lasted to her dying day— 
that she alone had softened the great rebel leader, 
and furled the flags of battle of the Fronde. 

A few days later she set out, together with her 
husband, on the return to Suilly. The journey 
was not quite without adventures; at one place 
222 



JACQUELINE DE LAGUETTE 

her horse slipped and threw her, and she put her 
shoulder out of socket; at another, she was nearly 
drowned by falling from a boat into a river. At 
last the towers of Gros-Bois came in sight; and 
she found herself a public character. All the village 
had heard with pride and wonder how she had 
tricked the army of Lorraine. When, some time 
after, the report began to spread that it was she 
who had recalled Prince Conde, the admiration of 
her circle knew no bounds. The fame of Barbe St. 
Belmont was eclipsed, and even Joan of Arc had 
found a rival. 

Such was the second of the scenes — the scene 
of her adventures — by which the tenor of her life 
diverged into romance. 

And now we pass again a space of many un- 
eventful years. Children were born to the chateau 
at Suilly — two boys and then a girl. While her 
children were growing into men and women, the 
life of Jacqueline was happy, calm, and undisturbed 
beyond the common lot. Then suddenly there came 
a time of tribulation — a time in which disasters 
ramed as heavily upon their wretched house as when 
the great wind of the wilderness smote the man- 
sion of Job's sons. Almost at the same time she 
lost her husband by a fever, her daughter died 
while on a visit to a friend, and her eldest son 
was killed in battle by a cannon-shot. Her second 
son, a brave and handsome youth, alone was left 
to her., And through this son, on whom was settled 
all the strength of her affections, it was destined 
that she should meet with her own death. 

And this brings us to the last of our three 
scenes. 

The young man was the favored suitor of a cele- 
brated beauty of the town of Gand. His fiery and 
impetuous temper — the temper of his race — made 
him an object of hatred and terror to a score of 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

jealous rivals. Linked by a common enmity, they 
combined together to destroy him. The young man 
was passionately fond of hunting, and was often i 
to be found alone in the most solitary recesses of j 
the forests. One morning, while her son as usual 
was out hunting, Jacqueline was awakened before ^ 
daybreak by a strange alarm. A peasant, panting 
with the speed with which he had been running, j 
was hammering at the door of the chateau. The 
man turned out to be the keeper of the village 
tavern: and his story was a strange one. Late the 
night before, three ruffians had slouched into his 
hotel, and had called for liquor. Over their tank- 
ards he had heard them muttering together of a 
person whom they had been hired to murder in the 
morning at a certain corner of the forest. To his 
amazement, he had caught the name of the intended 
victim. He knew it well; it was the son of Madame 
de Laguette. He had dared not, for his life, 
detain the villains, or awaken their suspicions; but 
as soon as they had left the tavern he had rushed 
off with the tidings. Help still might be in time; 
but there was not an instant to be lost. 

Jacqueline, though struck with terror, did not 
lose her sense or spirit. She siezed a sword and 
pistols, called her lacqueys to bring horses, and 
sprang into the saddle. In five minutes the whole 
troop, with the tavern-keeper at their head, were 
racing over fields and hedges towards the bandits' 
place of ambush. 

When they reached the spot, however, to their 
amazement not a living thing was to be seen. Yet 
clearly they were not too late: the earth was no- 
where trampled, the grass and bushes showed no 
traces of a struggle. The peasant stared about him, 
scratched his skull, and began to stammer that he 
must have blundered. But Jacqueline was seized 
with a new terror — the brigands might have 
224 



JACQUELINE DE LAGUETTE 

changed their lurking-place; at that very instant,, 
when help was close at hand, her son might be 
in peril of his life. She bade the party separate 
in haste, and scour the neighborhood in all di- 
rections; and she herself rode forward into the 
woods, alone. 

Presently her eye was caught by hoof-prints 
marked upon a piece of boggy ground. Galloping 
at full speed along this track she came upon a 
group of horses fastened to a tree. Close by them, 
the three brigands were seated on the turf. It was 
apparent at a glance that she was yet in time. 

Prudence was a virtue of which Jacqueline knew 
nothing. She instantly rode up to the assassins, 
and demanded what they did there. They stared at 
her in wonder. 

"Pass on your way," said one of them, "and do 
not meddle with us. We have a piece of work to 
do this morning." 

"I know it, villains," she said fiercely; "you are 
here for murder; but I will prevent it!" And, 
driving the spurs into her horse, she dashed among 
them, firing her pistol as she went. The shot 
struck one of them in the right hand; her horse 
knocked down another, and left him rolling on the 
ground; but in another instant all three were upon 
her, sword in hand, and mad with fury. The skill 
with which she wheeled her horse prevented them 
from striking; but, before she could present another 
pistol, one of them threw down his weapon, and 
running to the tree where they had left their 
horses, snatched up a musketoon, and fired upon 
her. The piece was loaded with twelve balls. One 
of the shots struck her. Her arms dropped; and 
she sank out of the saddle to the ground. 

The villains, struck with consternation at their 
handiwork, and fearful of the consequences, fled 
into the forest. An hour later, Jacqueline was 
.925 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

found where she had fallen — shot through the 
heart. She had died, of all deaths possible, the 
death by which she would have wished to die. She 
had saved her son's life with her own. 






236 



LOCHIEL 

THIl romance of the ancient Scottish Highland 
kingdoms has a color of its own. Its themes 
are not, like those of the romance of chivalry, of 
love and love's adventures; its tales are not of 
vows and tokens, of soft lutes sighing in the bowers 
of ladies, of knights in golden armor glittering in 
the lists. Its scenes are, like its own deep forests 
and dark mountain gorges, full of Gothic gloom 
and savage splendor. The fiery cross wandering 
like a meteor over hills and valleys, the gathering 
of the warlike clans, the glowing tartans, the 
badges, the terrific slogan, the glitter of the dirks 
and battle-axes — all its sights and sounds have in 
them something wild and weird, from the fierce 
shriek of the pibroch in the front of battle, to the 
mournful wailing of the coronach above the dead 
man in his shroud — from the minstrel touching his 
rude harp to music of barbaric sweetness, to the 
wild-eyed wizard girding on his robe of raw bull's- 
hide and lying down to catch prophetic voices in 
the roaring of the lone cascade. 

Among such sights and sounds a boy was born, 
in February, 1639, at Kulchorn Castle, Scotland, a 
pile of grey towers rising under the shadow of Ben 
Cruachan, on an island of Loch Awe. His mother 
was a Campbell. His father, who died before the 
boy was old enough to recollect him, was the eldest 
son of Cameron of Lochiel, one of the most famous 
of the Gaelic kings, a shrewd and fierce old chief, 
who for seventy years had lived amidst a whirl of 
wild adventures, and who had been long regarded 
with a double terror, partly as a warrior and partly 
a J 7 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

as a seer. His ancestry went back, through times 
of history, into times of fable — from a chief who 
fought for Mary at Corrichy, to a chief who fought 
for James at Flodden Field; from John of Ochtry, 
who bore at Halidon the Bloody Heart of Douglas, 
to that Angus, who, three hundred years before, is 
said to have rescued Fleance from the vengeance of 
Macbeth. The old man desired to give his grand- 
son a more courtly education than he had himself 
received; and Ewen, as the boy was called, was 
brought up by the Marquis or Argyle, who placed 
him, at the age of twelve, under a tutor of his own 
choice at Inverary. But Ewen had no taste for 
books; and too often his preceptor saw, in agony of 
spirit, his pupil rush away from spelling-books and 
grammars, to hunt foxes and red hares among the 
neighboring glens, to fill his creel with fish out of 
Loch Fyne, or to listen, for half a summer's day 
together, to some tattered pilgrim, the Homer of 
the villages, who could pour forth endless stories of 
the ancient heroes — of Wallace at the Brig of 
Stirling, of Bruce swimming from the blood-hound, 
of Black Donald's exploits over the Lords of the 
Isles, or of the vengeance of Allan-a-Sop. In spite, 
however, of his tutor's lamentations, at sixteen 
Ewen was, in mind and body, worthy of his race; 
tall, well-built, fresh-colored, eagle-eyed; and of 
that high temper to which dishonor is more terri- 
ble than death. 

While he was still at Inverary, the old warrior 
died. Ewen, at sixteen, found himself the chieftain 
of his clan. He did not, for some months, however, 
put on the eagle's feather, or take command of his 
wild tribe among the hills. Argyle desired that he 
should go to Oxford. The Marquis was about to 
make a journey into England. Donald Cameron, 
Ewen's uncle, took, for the time, his nephew's place 
as leader of the clan; and Lochiel, as he must now 
228 



LOCHIEL 

be called, set out among the men-at-arms who rode 
with Argjde's carriage. The party never saw the 
oriels and quadrangles of the ancient city; but 
Lochiel, within the space of a few months, saw 
much stirring life, and gained a kind of knowledge 
which is very little to be learnt from deans and 
doctors. One of the first of his adventures might, 
however, very well have proved to be the last. At 
Stirling, where the party halted, the pestilence was 
raging. The utmost care was necessary. Argyle 
himself, with a prudence quite his own, refused to 
stir outside his coach. But when the party was 
about to start, Lochiel had disappeared. The 
Marquis was in terror; squires and pages ran wildly 
up and down the city; and presently the object of 
their agitation was discovered affably conversing 
with the inmates of a hovel, every one of whom was 
struck with the plague. At Berwick, where the 
party made a longer stay, Lochiel cheered the time 
by fighting duels in the streets with the gay youths 
of the city. But this amusement was soon inter- 
rupted. The marquis of Montrose was marching 
with an army into Fife, and Argyle was compelled 
to mount in haste and gallop at full speed to 
Castle Campbell. That ancient pile, which stood in 
a wild glen among the Ochil hills, had once been 
known, together with its stream, by names of 
strange romantic sound. The castle had been Castle 
Gloom, and the waters which rolled past its walls, 
the waters of the stream of Grief. Within this 
ominous tower, Lochiel had some experience of a 
siege. A fierce band of the Macleans attacked the 
fort. It was not taken; but the defenders showed 
themselves so little lion-hearted that Lochiel bluntly 
told the governor that his quaking poltroons de- 
served hanging, and himself among them. Then 
came, as in Othello's story, battles, fortunes, and 
disastrous chances. At Kilsyth, Lochiel saw Ar- 
229 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

gyle's trim troops fly like hares before the clansmen 
of Montrose. A month later, by a turn of fate, he 
formed part of that soft-footed band who stole 
upon Montrose at Philiphaugh, and started like 
ghosts out of the morning mist upon his sleepy camp. 

Among the prisoners taken at that action was Sir 
Robert Spottiswood, an ancient friend of Lochiel's 
father, and of his grandfather before him. The old 
man was brought up for judgment at St. Andrews, 
and condemned to be beheaded. Lochiel, who was 
present at the trial, watched the proceedings with 
the keenest interest, and was, like all the rest of the 
spectators, struck with wonder and admiration at 
the calm and noble bearing of the prisoner, and by 
the moving eloquence of his defense. On the night 
before the execution he made his way to the cell- 
door. The jailor had strict ^orders to admit no 
visitor. But Lochiel was the favorite of Argyle. 
The door opened, and he entered. 

Before he left the cell Lochiel's whole destiny was 
altered. Sir Robert, finding him the son of his old 
friend, spoke with him long and earnestly about the 
cause for which he was condemned to suffer. He 
found a willing hearer. I.ochiel was by natural bent 
a cavalier. In secret, Montrose had long been his 
hero. And his own sagacity had taught him that 
Argyle was false, cunning, and cold-hearted. These 
things he now heard solemnly impressed upon him 
by a voice which was no longer of this world. He 
left the cell at midnight, his heart beating, and the 
tears streaming from his eyes. The next morning, 
from a window opposite the scaffold, he saw the 
prisoner, with cheek still ruddy, and with eagle eyes 
that looked proudly on the crowd, mount the steps, 
and lay his grey head on the block. The death of 
a brave man confirmed his words. From that 
moment Lochiel determined to follow his own 
course, to cast off Argyle's authority, and to take, 
230 



LOCHIEL 

without delay, command of his own wild kingdom 
on the uplands of Ben Nevis, and along the rocky 
ranges of Glen Roy. 

Indeed, there were reasons why he should not 
linger. His uncle Donald, acting chief in his ab- 
sence, had turned out a sluggard; and his clan, 
which had received some tidings of his character, 
were already looking for him eagerly. Argyle, 
finding his mind fixed, made no attempt to thwart 
him; and in December, 1646, Lochiel started for the 
Highlands. At the news of his approach, his 
tribesmen mustered and marched out to meet him; 
and thus, with colors flying and pipes playing, he 
came to his ancestral residence, Toor Castle, on 
Loch Lochy. He was not yet quite eighteen. 

And now the eyes of friends and of enemies were 
bent alike upon him. A chief, at the beginning of 
his reign, was virtually on his probation. His 
empire over his wild clansmen had to be established 
by his own capacity. A coward or a fool, set over 
that fierce host, was not regarded simply with con- 
tempt, but was fortunate if he escaped, to use 
Dalgetty's phrase, a dirk-thrust in his midst. On 
the other hand, a great chief was the idol of his 
tribe. The minstrels were never weary of singing, 
nor the people weary of hearing, of the spleiidor of 
his rush to victory, or of the craft and skill with 
which he could stalk the wariest mountain-stag, or 
thrust his spear into the fiercest wolf. But first 
his powers as a warrior and a hunter had to be set 
clear before all eyes. Lochiel had now to show 
what sort of leader he was. 

An opportunity was not likely to be wanting. 
The little realm of the clan Cameron was girdled 
on all sides by the estates of rival chiefs, Camp- 
bells, Stewarts, Gordons, Macintoshes, Macpher- 
sons, Macdonalds, and Macleans. Every one of 
these sovereigns was either at daggers drawn with 
231 



HISTORIC DEEDS OP DANGER AND DARING 

all the rest, or ready at any moment to become so. 
No reader of the Legend of Montrose will have 
forgotten the gathering of the clans at the Castle of 
Darnlinvarach: the assembly of the chiefs, the fire 
glittering in their eyes, the dirks ready at every 
instant to fly out of the scabbards, the rival pipers 
strutting up and down, each piping for his life to 
drown the rest, the sleeping-quarters settled jeal- 
ously apart in the barn and the stables, the malt- 
kiln and the loft. Some of the feuds between the 
clans were as old as the quarrel on which, two cen- 
turies and a half before, Lochiel's ancestors and the 
ancestors of ^Macintosh had fought their immortal 
fight at Perth, in the days of the Fair Maid. Others 
were disputes of yesterday; and one of these Lo- 
chiel found ready to his hands. 

Macdonald of Keppoch owed him a sum of money 
for a piece of moorland which he rented in Glen 
Roy. This is the. same Keppoch who once, it is 
related, gained a curious wager from an English 
lord, as to which of them possessed the finest candle- 
sticks. The Englishman's candlesticks were of 
massive silver; Keppoch's turned out to be two 
brav/ny Highlanders, each grasping in his fist a 
blazing torch. This wily potentate had speedily 
discovered that, against Lochiel's uncle, it was an 
easier policy to bluster than to pay; and, on 
Lochiel's arrival, he soothed his soul with the re- 
flection, that against so young a leader that policy 
would certainly prove easier still. He soon found 
out his error. Before he knew it, Lochiel, with 
five hundred men behind him, was marching down 
on his domain. Keppoch, who began with his old 
policy of bluster, wavered, put his claymore back 
into its scabbard, and sent a herald with the money. 

Lochiel, burning for battle, regarded such a 
victory with disgust. But he was soon to have his 
heart's desire. The Earl of Glencairn, after the 
232 



LOCHIEL 

defeat of Worcester, summoned the clans, as volun- 
teers, to fight for their Uncrowned King, Prince 
Charles, "the Pretender." Lochiel with seven hun- 
dred swordsmen, was the first to join him. Then 
came adventures thick and fast. Wherever the 
thickest of the fighting fell, there was Lochiel with 
his seven hundred. 

Glencairn had one evening pitched his camp at 
Tulloch, a village approached only by a steep and 
narrow pass, in which Lochiel was posted. A large 
force of the enemy was known to be at hand; but 
an immediate attack was not expected. On a 
sudden, in the twilight of the morning, the scouts 
came running in. The enemy were approaching 
in great numbers, evidently resolved to force their 
way through the ravine. 

Lochiel, who had lain down on the heather, 
wrapped up in his plaid, was instantly aroused. 
The night was frosty, and a thin veil of mist hung 
above the valley. He climbed a lofty pinnacle of 
rock, from which he could plainly see the horses, 
the red coats, the glittering mail, and the dancing 
colors of the English soldiers. The peril was ex- 
treme; for their mere numbers were, in open 
ground, sufficient to cut Glencairn's entire force to 
pieces. Lochiel sent off a messenger to warn the 
general to retire into a place of safety. Then he 
prepared to hold the way to his last man. 

Scarcely had he set his force in order, when the 
enemy dashed gaily forward, confident of victory. 
They found themselves confronted by a grim array 
of targets, behind each of which a savage soldier, 
armed with a glittering claymore, was quivering 
lake a greyhound in the leash. Twenty times the 
horsemen charged that wall of warriors — and twenty 
times went reeling back, stabbed, hacked, and 
broken. Lochiel himself fought in front of his 
array; and at every charge his voice was heard, 
233 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

above the clash of battle, sending forth the slogan 
Four hours passed in desperate conflict; and stil 
the little band held fast the gorge against the mos 
furious efforts of the English. 

At last, when the men were weary, drenched ii 
blood, and weak from wounds and bruises, a herah 
came from Glencairn. He had retired into i 
swamp, some two miles distant, where it was im 
possible that a horse could follow, and was now ii 
perfect safety. 

Lochiel instantly drew off his men. But he re 
treated, not towards the village, but up the sides oi 
the ravine, where nothing but a wildcat or a High 
lander could cling. Lilburn, the English com 
mander, to his amazement, found the enemy sud 
denly above his head, and the passage through th< 
gorge left open. He pushed forward at full speed 
but Glencairn was now safe beyond his reach, anc 
he was compelled at last, to his extreme vexation 
to drag his horses from the quag, and to marcl 
back through the pass. There, as his tormentec 
troopers made their way, every' boulder, everj 
heather-tuft, along the walls of the ravine, seemec 
to have turned itself into an enemy shooting ar 
arrow, or hurling down a stone; and with ever\ 
stone and arrow came the notes of a terrific chorus 
"Wolves and ravens, come to me, and I will give 
you flesh!" 

It was the war-song of Lochiel. 

This exploit raised his fame to a great height 
For every man he lost, the enemy lost six. Glen- 
cairn welcomed him as a deliverer; and not long 
afterwards the King himself sent him a letter, whict 
acknowledged in the warmest terms the signa 
service which his valor had rendered to the roya 
cause. But as yet his fame was only in its dawn. 

General Monk marched into Scotland. It was that 
234 



LOCHIEL 

generars policy to fight with gold as often as with 
teel. He tried to bribe Lochiel; but on the young 
chief's blunt refusal, he resolved to plant a fortress 
in the heart of his domains. Lochiel received in- 
telligence that five ships, carrying three thousand 
Soldiers and a colony of workmen, were sailing up 
Loch Eil towards Ben Nevis. 

He instantly marched homewards along the 
rnountain ranges, and looked down on Inverlochy. 
The ships were riding off the shore, the troops were 
landed, the garrison was already fortified against all 
danger, and the fort was rising fast. To attack 
them would have been mere madness, and Lochiel 
iwas forced to lie in watch for an opportunity of 
avenging their presumption. With thirty-five picked 
men he posted himself upon the woody heights 
above Achdalew, having the lake and the garrison 
beneath his eye. His men were grieviously in want 
of forage; and he was compelled to send out the 
remainder of his party to drive in cattle from some 
distance round. 

The men were scarcely gone, when a boat be- 
longing to the garrison put forth upon the lake, 
and stood over the water to the shore beneath him. 
A hundred and fifty soldiers were on board. Their 
purpose was to strip the village and to cut down 
wood. Lochiel resolved that they should not touch 
a girdle-cake or break a twig. His men were ready 
to follow him through any peril. But the risk of 
an attack was fearful; the enemy were more than 
four to one against them; and they besought him 
not to expose his life to such a hazard. Lochiel 
replied that if he fell, his brother Allan, who was 
with them, would take his place as chief. But the 
lives of both must not be jeopardized; and Allan 
positively refused to be left out of the adventure. 
It was found necessary, for his own security, to 
lash Allan to a tree, where he was left under the 
235 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

guard of a young bo,y. And then the little ban<i 
prepared for the attack. 

By this time the English soldiers had landed, an( 
were busy in the village, stripping the hovels o: 
eatables and putting the ducks and the hens int( 
their sacks. While they were thus employed, i 
scout dashed in among them. They had scarceb 
time to draw up in rough order on the shore, whei 
Lochiel at the head of his party came rushing ou' 
of the wood upon their ranks. 

A desperate fight ensued. The English had i 
vast superiority of numbers. But the first fire oi 
their muskets did no injury; and before they coulc 
reload, the enemy were among them. The clans- 
men, after their manner, caught the sword-cuts and 
the bayonets on their targets, and stabbed upwards 
from beneath them; and the English, thus fighting 
at great disadvantage, were slowly driven down the 
strand into the water. 

Lochiel himself had driven three or four assailants 
into the wood, where after a sharp contest he had 
left them lying in a heap. He was returning at full 
speed towards the shore, eager to rejoin his men. 
when a gigantic officer, who had concealed himself 
in a thicket, sprang out upon him with a cry of 
vengeance. Their blades were instantly opposed. 
And then came a combat which, under a slight 
disguise, was destined to become famous over all 
the world. It was the fight between Fitz-James 
and Roderick Dhu. 

The parts of the Gael and the Saxon are, how- 
ever, interchanged. Lochiel in the Fitz-James; the 
officer is Roderick Dhu. With this fact borne in 
mind, the words of Sir Walter Scott, the poet, set 
the fight before our eyes: — 

"Three times in closing strife they stood. 
And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood. 
236 



LOCH I EL 

"Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain, 
And showered his blows like winter rain — 
And as firm rock or castle-roof 
Against the winter shower is proof. 
The foe, invulnerable still. 
Foiled his wild rage by steady skill — 
Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand 
Forced Roderick's weapon from his hand, 
And, backward borne upon the lea, 
Brought the proud chieftain to his knee. 

" 'Now yield thee, or by Him that made 
The world, thy heart's blood dyes my blade !' — 
'Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy ! 
Let recreant yield, who fears to die!' — 
Like adder darting from his coil. 
Like wolf that dashes through the toil. 
Like mountain-cat who guards her young. 
Full at Fitz-James's throat he sprung; 
Receiv^ed, but recked not of a wound. 

And locked his arms his foeman round. — ■ 
Now^ gallant Saxon, hold thine own ! 
No maiden's hand is round thee thrown ! 
That desperate grasp thy frame might feel 
Through bars of brass and triple steel! — 
They tug, they strain ! — down, down they go. 
The Gael above, Fitz-James below." 

Lochiel and his antagonist, however, fell not on 
oft heather. Locked in the deadly conflict, they 
tottered, wavered, and rolled together down a steep 
oank into the dry gulley of a brook. Lochiel, who 
kas undermost, wedged between rocks, and crushed 
gainst the pebbles by the weight of his huge foe, 
was unable to stir hand or foot. But as his enemy 
Stretched forth his hand to reach his dagger, which 
lad fallen out of his belt, Lochiel, with a last effort, 
237 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

darted his head upwards and fixed his teeth in his 
opponent's throat. He fell back, writhing, and 
Lochiel stabbed him with his dirk. 

"Unwounded from the dreadful close. 
But breathless all, Lochiel arose." 

But his adventures were not ended. 

As he was issuing from the wood, a soldier, who 
was skulking in the thicket, leveled his musket at 
him through the branches, and in another instant 
would have shot him dead. But again his fortune 
saved him. While he had been engaged with his 
opponent, his brother Allan, who had been left 
lashed, in fancied safety, to the tree, had bribed 
the boy who attended him to cut his cords. At 
this instant he came running up, and espjing the 
musket-barrel peeping from the bush, instantly 
fired his own piece in that direction. The soldier 
tumbled dead into the thicket, and the brothers 
hurried down the shore together. 

The combatants, who were now of almost equal 
numbers, were fighting in the water. Lochiel, in 
a loud voice, offered quarter to all who would 
throw down their arms. The offer was accepted; 
and both parties began to wade ashore. Among 
the first to surrender was an Irishman, who must 
have been a fellow of delightful humor. As soon 
as this worthy felt himself on land, he cast down 
his weapon, seized Lochiel's hand in a friendly 
grasp, bade him adieu, and was off like the wind. 
Before the victors had done staring at one another 
he was half way back to Inverlochy. 

He reached the fort in safety, with the tidings 
of the fray. His escape was narrower than he 
imagined. While he was turning his hearers into 
stone with horror, his late companions were in 
evil plight. Lochiel's offer of quarter had been 
accepted; the men v/ere laying down their arms, 
238 



LOCHIEL 

when one of their party, who had swam out to 
the boat, found there a loaded firelock. He rested 
the barrel on the gunwale, and aimed deliberately 
at Lochiel. Lochiel's foster-brother, who stood 
beside him, saw the action. He threw himself 
before his chief, and the next instant was shot 
through the heart. 

His blood was instantly and bitterly avenged. 
Lochiel himself, with his sword between his teeth, 
dashed through the water to the boat, and drove 
his blade into the soldier's heart. There was no 
more thought of mercy. The English soldiers 
snatched up their arms and fought with despera- 
tion for their lives. But the mountaineers, breath- 
ing forth vengeance, cut them down to the last 
man. 

That night Lochiel himself bore in his arms the 
body of his preserver over three miles of crag 
and moorland, to the dead man's home among 
the hills; and there the coronach (death lament) 
which was wailed above his bier, ere he was laid 
among the graves of his own people, doubtless had 
in it as much of pride as of sorrow, as for one 
who had died for his chief. 

And now the fight was over — a fight of which 
the incidents of self-devotion, of single combat, of 
hair's-breath escapes, of victory achieved against 
appalling odds, resemble some wild fable of ro- 
mantic story rather than events of history. The 
whole of the English force, except a single fugi- 
tive, lay dead upon the shore or in the wood. 
Lochiel, though nearly all his band were bruised 
and wounded, had lost only five men. Some of 
his wild warriors had that day set eyes for the 
first time on Saxon soldiers. 

Next morning Colonel Bryan, the governor of 
the garrison, marched out two thousand soldiers, 
thirsting for revenge. In vain. He could see the 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

Camerons on the lofty crags, their colors flying 
and their bagpipes yelling in triumph; but he could 
no more reach them than if they had had wings. 
On the other hand, whenever parties of his men 
were to be seen, the mountaineers came swooping 
from the hills, attacked them, slew them, and rose 
again, uninjured, like a flight of eagles, into their 
wild heights and inaccessible ravines. For some 
days this war went on. But Lochiel, who could 
no longer absent himself from the main army, at 
last drew off his men. The Colonel instantly told 
off a strong troop to pursue him. The man who 
took Lochiel, alive or dead, was to receive promo- 
tion and a bag of gold. 

Lochiel marched by day over the mountain- 
ranges, and slept by night upon the heather, or 
in the little sheilings (huts) made of turf and 
branches, which the mountain shepherds built on the 
bare moors. In one of these he lay one night 
among the hills of Braemar. No enemy was known 
to be at hand, and the watch was kept with negli- 
gence. In the dead of night he had a vision. Tra- 
dition says it was the figure of a small red-bearded 
man, with troubled features and wild eyes, who 
struck the sleeper on the breast, and bade him in- 
stantly arise. Lochiel awoke, and gazed about him; 
but he could see nothing, and soon fell asleep once 
more. Immediately the figure reappeared, and 
awoke him with the same alarming cry. Lochiel, 
in some amazement, roused his henchman, who lay 
beside him. The man had seen no visitor; and Lo- 
chiel, for the third time, sunk to slumber. But 
now the ghost, appearing with an angrj^ aspect, 
struck him more sharply than before, and cried in 
a compelling voice, "Arise, arise, Lochiel!" With 
the accent ringing in his ears, Lochiel sprang up 
and looked forth at the doorway of the cabin. To 
his unspeakable surprise, the moor was covered 
240 



LOCHIEL 

with the red coats of EngHsh soldiers. His pur- 
suers had stolen between his outposts, and were 
creeping up to seize him in his sleep. 

Whoever the red-bearded ghost might be, his 
warning was delivered just in time. Lochiel in- 
stantly dashed out of the hut, and favored by the 
dusky light of morning, got clear away among the 
trackless hills. His men soon gathered round him; 
l)ut two or three were missing; and Lochiel, more- 
over, had lost all his baggage, in which were some 
unset diamonds, and a dozen silver spoons engraven 
with the ten commandments. 

He joined his allies without misadventure. But 
the campaign was nearly over; and he was soon at 
liberty to revisit his old foes. He marched back 
in deep secrecy to Inverlochy. It chanced that on 
the day of his arrival about a hundred of the offi- 
cers were celebrating his absence by holding a hunt- 
ing-party in his forests, and killing his red deer. 
They were destined to enjoy, that day, the excite- 
ment both of the hunter and of the game. In the 
midst of their amusement Lochiel came suddenly 
upon them, hunted them out of the forest, and left 
only ten of them alive. 

Nor did he confine himself to Inverlochy. Some 
days later three colonels, with their guards and 
servants, who had been sent out to survey the 
country, were drinking their wine at evening in 
their inn at Portuchrekine. The door was well 
guarded; no danger was thought possible; when 
suddenly the party was electrified to perceive a 
hole appear among the rafters of the roof. Through 
the hole Lochiel, with a string of men behind him, 
came tumbling into the room. In a moment he 
had made every man of them a prisoner. They 
^\ere conducted, under the darkness of the night, 
to the shores of Loch Ortuigg, where a boat was 
waiting, and lodged in a crazy cabin on an island 
241 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

in the middle of the lake. Except for their lodg- 
ings, however, they had little to coniplain of. Their 
servants were permitted to attend them; and every 
day, as long as they were prisoners, their table was 
loaded with venison and wild-fowl. Lochiel, though 
an appalling enemy, was, after the ancient High- 
land manner, a host of the most lofty courtesy; 
and he chose to consider his captives as his guests. 

His enemies were, by this time, eager to buy 
peace. Every chief in Scotland, himself excepted, 
had now submitted to the Protector, and had been 
compelled to take an oath of fealty to the State. 
I.ochiel alone received an intimation, that on pas- 
sing his bare word to fight no longer for Prince 
Charles, he should receive full compensation for 
all injuries, and be left, for the future, in undis- 
turbed possession of his lands. These conditions — 
as glorious to his fame as any feat of arms — Lo- 
chiel accepted. At the head of his clan, he marched 
to the garrison at Inverlochy. The treaty was rat- 
ified; and Lochiel found himself at peace. 

His name was now renowned all over Scotland. 
And his appearance was worthy of his name. He 
had now attained to his full growth. His figure 
was six feet high, slender, yet of amazing strength. 
His face was handsome. His swarthy skin, and 
his dark and piercing ej'es, caused him to be known 
throughout the coimtry by the title of Black Ewen. 
In nobility of bearing he was said, in after years, 
to present a striking likeness to I^ouis the Four- 
teenth. The resemblance, however, must have been 
rather in impression than in reality; for the majes- 
tic Frenchman, in spite of a towering periwig, and 
shoes with heels like stilts, would hardly have come 
up to I^ochiel's shoulder. 

And now, for a time, the claymore was put back 
into the scabbard. The war-pipes were to warble 
the gay strains of peace. The wild pibroch was 
242 



LOCHIEL 

to change to wedding reels. Lochiel was to be 
married. 

His bride was a Macdonald — a daughter of the 
lofty house whose chieftains had, for many ages, 
been known by the proud title of "the Lords Of the 
Isles." The wedding was long remembered for its 
splendor, for the brilliance of the company who 
gathered to the feast, and who danced from night 
to morning to the joyous "skirling" of the pipes. 
Among the merry-makers was one ancient minstrel, 
who had made a pilgrimage of many miles, that he 
might add to the festivities the humble tribute of 
his song. A version of the Gaelic ditty which he 
sang before the guests is still extant. It is an 
amusing specimen of the simplicity of art. The 
singer, having extolled the virtues of the chief, 
leads, by a deft transition, to the loss of three cows 
which had befallen himself, and for lack of which, 
he sings, he fears that he shall be reduced to feed 
on grass. Lochiel presented the performer, who in 
point of poverty, at least, seems to have been the 
equal of most poets, from Homer downwards, with 
three fresh cows from his own stock; the company 
filled his sporran (leather pouch) with silver pieces; 
and hills and valleys echoed with thanksgivings, as 
the joyful bard departed. 

Up to this point we have traced Lochiel's career 
with some minuteness. The course of events be- 
tween his marriage and the battle of Killiecrankie 
may pass more rapidly l>efore us. 

In times of peace, among the ancient Scottish 
Highlands, vast hunting-parties took the place of 
war. The wolves, that once had prowled in mighty 
packs among the mountains, were by no means yet 
extinct. Twenty years later, Lochiel himself drove 
b.is spear into the ribs of the last wolf that howled 
in Scotland; but at this time numbers of the fierce 
beasts were to be found, and provided a dangerous 
243 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

and exciting sport. Lochiel's hunting-parties soon 
grew famous. They were varied by occasional 
campaigns against the neighboring clans. He 
marched against Macintosh. He fought with the 
Macleans against the Campbells. In 1660, when 
General Monk declared his pleasure that the King 
should enjoy his own again, Lochiel marched with 
Monk to London, rode at his side on the day of the 
triumphal entry, was presented, kissed the King's 
hand, and might, as it appears, have had the bliss 
of holding the King's stirrup, had he not lacked 
the courtier's art of thrusting himself forward. 
It was not, however, from the monarch that Lo- 
chiel was destined to receive the most distinguished 
marks of favor, but from James, then Duke of 
York. 

In 168:2, some villagers of Lochiel were seized 
and brought for trial to Edinburgh, on the charge 
of having killed two soldiers, who had attempted to 
drive off cattle from the village, and who had caused 
the death of an old woman, to whom the herd be- 
longed. Thither Lochiel repaired to answer for his 
men. The Duke happened to be visiting the city; 
and Ivochiel, who waited on him, was most gra- 
ciously received. The Duke talked long with him 
about his exploits in the royal cause, and finally 
demanded Lochiel's sword, Lochiel chanced to be 
wearing, at the time, an ornamental rapier, such as 
he never used in actual fighting. He handed his 
weapon to James, who attempted to draw it; but 
the blade, which had grown rusty, would not stir. 
"Lochiel's weapon," said the Duke, with a smile, 
"has not often stuck in its scabbard when the royal 
cause required it." Then, as Lochiel, with a slight 
effort, drew the blade himself, "See, my lords," he 
continued, turning to the crowd of courtiers who 
stood round, "the sword of Lochiel obeys no hand 
but his own !" And with this graceful speech 
3U 



LOCHIEL 

he took the rapier, made I.ochiel kneel down, struck 
him on the shoulder with the blade, and bade him 
"rise up Sir Ewen." He was now a Knight. 

The courtiers who were present at this ceremony 
smiled so affably that Loc^^iel believed himself to be 
among a host of friends. No sooner, however, had 
the Duke departed than some of these, bursting 
with envy, pushed on the case against his villagers 
with the most bitter vigor. The culprits would 
certainly have been doomed to dangle in a row, had 
not Lochiel, who had no mind to see his clansmen 
hanged to spite himself, set his own wits against his 
enemies. He hired a band to pick acquaintance 
with the most dangerous of the witnesses against 
him. These genial spirits earned their pay. On 
the morning of the trial the witnesses were dis- 
covered, after a long search, lying in a drunken 
sleep. No effort could arouse them. The case was 
dismissed for want of evidence, and Lochiel re- 
turned in triumph to Ivochaber. 

Strategy was, indeed, as native to his character 
as a feat of arms. In 1685 the Sheriff of Inverness 
was charged by the Council to hold assizes in the 
Highlands. In the course of his circuit he came 
into I.ochaber, attended by a guard of six or seven 
hundred men. Lochiel, incensed that any but him- 
self should dare to exercise authority in his domains, 
marched to the Court with five hundred of his 
followers. These he professed were intended as a 
band of honor to the judge; but he had dropped 
a broad hint in the ears of two or three of his most 
turbulent spirits: "This judge will ruin us all. Is 
there none of my lads so clever as to get up a 
tumidt and send him packing? I have seen them 
raise mischief at less need." His listeners, eager to 
seize the least sign of his pleasure, caught up the 
words in a moment. 

The Sheriff was sitting; the Court was crowded 
245 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

to the doors; when on a sudden, no one could say 
where, a blow was struck, a scuffle arose, and in two 
minutes the place was ringing with uproar and 
dazzling with the gleam of swords. The Sheriff, 
frightened out of his wits, threw himself on the 
protection of Lochiel; and IvOchiel, with much loyal 
parade, escorted him out of the country, into which 
he never ventured to set his foot again. To add 
the last touch to the comedy, the Sheriff regarded 
Lochiel as the preserver of his life, and commended 
his name to the Council, who sent him a letter of 
thanks. 

But although Lochiel permitted no rival — not 
even the King's representative — to ursurp his 
authority, he was ready at all times to fight for 
the King. When Viscount Dimdee summoned the 
clans for his last venture, it was from lyochiel's 
castle that the fiery crosses took their flight. His 
part in the campaign that followed is one of the 
well-known events of history. No reader of Scott 
or of Macaulay will have forgotten how his voice 
induced tlie Council to give battle; how, before 
the fight, he drew from every Cameron an oath 
to conquer or to perish; and how his onset whirled 
llie red-coats in a torrent down the gorge of 
Killiecrankie. 

He had never led his men except to victory — 
and such a victory was the fitting crown of his 
career. After this battle he retired into his own 
country, where he lived, taking no further active 
part in public matters. In 1719, he died of fever. 
With the exception of a few vague glimpses, we 
have no record of his later years. In truth, in this 
point, as in others, he resembles the ancient hero 
to whom he has been likened. We know little 
more of the old age of Lochiel than of the last 
years of LTlysses. 

Nevertheless, his character, his picturesque and 
246 



LOCHIEL 

striking figure, are as distinct to us as those of 
iiuy hero of history or romance. "The Ulysses of 
the Highlands" — the title is no freak of fancy. 
Nothing was easier than to picture him among the 
scenes of Homer; to see him, in the mind's eye, 
rising in the hushed assembly of the Grecian kings 
— whirling in his chariot along the banks of the 
Scamander— emerging like a phantom from the 
wooden horse — plunging the burning brand into the 
eye of the Cyclops — or scheming how to sail in 
safety past the perilous islands where the Sirens 
sang upon the shingle among the whitened bones 
of men. Strength, courage, fiery vigor, a sagacity 
which was never to be found at fault — such was the 
character of the ancient Wanderer. And such was 
the character of Lochiel. 




247 



COUNT FRONTENAC 

FEW notable men in history have contrived to 
stir up more violent personal animosities, or 
to have friends so true and loyal, and enemies so 
bitter, as Louis de Buade, Count de Frontenac, 
who vi^as for nearly twenty years Governor of the 
French possessions in Canada. Even at this date, 
two centuries after his death, it is difficult, in 
spite of the voluminous documents concerning him, 
to apportion the due meed of praise and blame, 
or to arrive at a just estimate of his extraordinary 
character. If we listen to his friends, we must 
esteem him as a man of transcendent ability, a 
wise and capable administrator, loyal to his king 
and considerate of his power and dignity, a man 
persecuted by a crowd of ambitious and intolerant 
priests, thwarted by treacherous colleagues and un- 
dermined and vilified to the king and court in 
France, by unscrupulous foes. If we listen to his 
enemies, we must believe him a man of irritable and 
malignant disposition, of violent and ungoverned 
temper, outrageously vain, abnormally avaricious, 
corrupt and lawless to a degree. 

The man thus belauded and vilified was undoubt- 
edly a most interesting character, who might have 
led an easier life, if he had not been too busy 
fighting in his youth, to study the story of King 
Henry II and Thomas a Becket, A ruler, who, at 
the outset of his administration, antagonizes the 
clerical leaders of a country, and attempts to cur- 
tail their power and perquisites, must prepare 
himself for war to the knife, as long as he lives, 
and to be traduced in history after his death. 
248 



COUNT FRONTENAC 

Frontenac had not realized this fact, or if he knew 
it, was too proud and haughty to be influenced by 
it. The conflict between the man jealous of his 
rights, and of the honor that should be given to the 
representative of a mighty king, and the bishop 
and monks who demanded consideration as the 
representatives of the King of kings, was certain 
to be a violent and obstinate one. This Frontenac 
found it, but he was a valiant fighter, and, if he 
despised his foes too much, or was too impatient 
under their wily and insidious attacks, he did but 
make the mistake that has generally been made 
by high-spirited men in similar circumstances. 

It is Frontenac's career in Canada that interests 
the world now, but as he did not go to Canada until 
he was fifty -two years of age, a brief glance at his 
earlier years may aid us in understanding his char- 
acter. Frontenac was born in 16:20 of a proud and 
noble family, long celebrated in the history of France. 
The family had, by display and the vices common 
to the nobles of the sixteenth century, lost the 
greater part of its possessions, but Frontenac's 
father eked out his income by the salary attached 
to his high office in the household of Louis XIII, 
by whom he was greatly esteemed. The king con- 
descended to be godfather to the boy and to facili- 
tate him in obtaining such education as was then 
deemed necessary for a youthful member of the 
nobility. That it was meager, we may assume from 
the fact that at the age of fifteen, he was in the 
army, serving in Holland. Four years later, we 
hear of him at Hesdin serving as a volunteer, and 
in the following year "covering himself with glory" 
at Arras. By the year 1643, he had risen to the 
rank of colonel of the regiment of Normandy, 
which, under his command, did conspicuous service 
in the Italian campaign. That it was no paper 
warfare, was proved by several wounds, some of 
249 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

them serious, that the Colonel suffered. In 1646, 
raised to the rank of Marechal, equivalent to Brig- 
adier-General, he returned to his father's house in 
Paris to recover from a broken arm. 

During his convalesence, like many another sol- 
dier, Frontenac lost his heart. In Parisian society 
he met Mademoiselle de Neuville, the only daughter 
of a widowed gentleman of some means. She was 
at that time only sixteen years of age and very 
susceptible to the charms of the gallant Marechal, 
Avho, distinguished and wounded at the the age of 
twenty-six, made ardent love to her. She was 
under the charge of a shrewd old lady, cousin of 
her father, Mho did not approve of the gallant 
soldier's suit. As she pointed out to the girl and 
her father, it was not a very brilliant prospect to 
marry her to a man who had only $4,000 a year. 
The father seems to have been a rather careless, 
irresolute parent, favoring the young soldier at one 
time, and rebuffing him at another. Finally, the 
young people, uncertain how he might decide, found 
a church which had the privilege of dispensing with 
the permission of parents in a marriage, and took 
advantage of the opportunity. They were married, 
and the father, though furious at first, became 
reconciled afterwards. 

Of the result of the marriage, the enemies of 
Frontenac made capital in later years. "Even his 
wife could not endure his company," they said. 
"His overbearing, brutal temper made association 
with him intolerable." Perhaps Frontenac may have 
had something to say on his side of the matrimonial 
troubles. Certain it is that Madame Frontenac 
speedily grew tired of married life, gave her baby 
son into the care of a nurse and went after a 
couple of years to enjoy herself in Parisian society. 
She soon developed an unconquerable aversion to 
her husband, which seems to have had little j ustifica- 
350 



COUNT FRONTENAC 

tion. Mademoiselle de Montpensier, who became 
her intimate friend, tells an amusing story of a 
visit which Frontenac paid to his wife while she 
was a guest in her house. Madame Frontenac be- 
came so excited and hysterical when she heard of 
her husband's arrival, that her friends could not 
calm her. She cried and shrieked wildly, till at last, 
they thought she was possessed by a demon, and 
sent for a priest to exorcise her. The priest's 
services proved effectual, and husband and wife 
had an interview. The lady's temper was as im- 
perious as that of her husband, and they prudently 
resolved to keep apart. Even on the occasion of 
that visit, there was evidence of Frontenac's excit- 
ability. One object of his going there was to meet 
a lawyer who was in attendance on Mademoiselle 
Montpensier. He discussed some matter of busi- 
ness with this man at the hostess' assembly, a little 
\ aloof from the other guests. The conversation be- 
[ tween the two became so animated as to attract 
! general notice. Later, the lawyer told the ladies he 
had never met so impertinent a man in his life. That 
the Count did exceed the bounds of ordinary polite- 
ness, may be inferred from the lawyer's complaint: 
"He actually threatened to throttle me." From the 
accounts of Frontenac's subsequent behavior when 
annoyed, we can imagine that if the lawyer did not 
agree with his interlocutor, he was not needlessly 
alarmed. 

Some other characteristic details of Frontenac's 

personality at this time are quoted by Parkman, 

from Mademoiselle Montpensier's journals. In his 

j own home, she says, "he kept open table, and many 

I of my people went to dine with him; for he affected 

i to hold a kind of court, and acted as if everybody 

I owed duty to him. In his conversations with me, 

he was continually praising everything that he 

owned, and never came to sup or dine with me, 

251 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

without speaking of some ragout, or some new- 
sweetmeat, which had been served at his tabh", 
ascribing it all to the excellences of the officers of 
his kitchen. The very meat that he ate, according; 
to him, had a different taste on his board than on 
any other. As for his silver plate, it was always 
of the best workmanship; and his dress was always 
of patterns invented by himself. When he had 
new clothes, he paraded them like a child. One day 
he brought some for me to look at, and left them 
on my dressing-table. My father, coming in later, 
saw them there, and seemed to think it very odd 
for doublets and breeches to be in such a place. 
Frontenac took all his visitors to see his stables; 
and all who wished to gain his good graces, were 
obliged to admire his horses, which were very indif- 
ferent. This is his way in everything." 

Men who had dealings with Frontenac afterwards 
in Quebec, would recognize familiar characteristics 
in the lively lady's description. Evidently, he com- 
bined with his splendid courage and brilliant abil- 
ities, insufferable vanity and intolerance of opposi- 
tion. It is not an uncommon combination in other 
spheres of life and in other times. Men who are 
successful in war, or diplomacy, or in business, have 
frequently a contempt for others who do not suc- 
ceed, and an impatience of the advocacy of methods 
different from their own. Such men have seldom 
many friends, and their followers are generally 
parasites, who find their interest in flattering and 
feeding the vanity which honest friendship would 
check. When the vain man has need of friends to 
support his projects, or to defend nim under as- 
persion, he often finds to his cost, that he has 
alienated by some hasty word, or by his arrogant 
bearing, those, M^hose service to him in a crisis 
would have been invaluable. The fable of the mouse 
who showed its gratitude by releasing the lion from 



COUNT FRONTENAC 

the net, ought to be a story well-conned and never 
forgotten by the successful man. Unfortunately 
for himself, Frontenac did forget it. 

After a military expedition against the Turks, 
for which he was selected by Turenne, who knew 
his valor and his resources, Frontenac came back to 
France with new laurels. The expedition, it is 
true, was not successful, but its failure, in view of 
the obstacles encountered, was inevitable, and so 
dearly had the Turk won his victory, and so stub-, 
bornly had Frontenac contended, that one hundred 
and eighty thousand Mohammedans had been left 
dead on the field. Either as a reward for his serv- 
ice, or as scandal says, to remove a formidable 
rival from a competition in which a royal lover was 
engaged, Frontenac was selected for the office of 
Governor of the French dominions in America. He 
accepted it gladly as a service that might improve 
his diminished fortunes and relieve him of domestic 
embarrassments. 

A more decisive change in environment and occu- 
pation can scarcely be imagined than that from 
Paris, under the Grand jVIonarch, to Quebec in the 
latter half of the seventeenth century. The polished 
society of the capital, its delicate refinements and 
its frivolous pleasures, was a striking contrast to 
the sober and uncultured society of merchants and 
priests and association with untutored Indians. Be- 
sides, though over fifty years old, Frontenac 
had no experience in the art of governing. His 
life had been passed largely in the discipline of 
the camp with its clearly defined rules of conduct. 
He had been "a man under authority, having 
soldiers under him," exacting and rendering the 
homage of perfect deference and unhesitating obe- 
dience. He was now to be head of the government 
in a distant province far removed from his superi- 
ors, with few precedents to guide him. It is inter- 
253 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

esting to watch how a man so haughty and dignified 
will act, when all restraints are removed. 

The new Viceroy gave early intimation of the 
character of his rule. Gracious and condescending 
and conciliatory to all who showed him the defer- 
ence due to his position, he was quick to resent a 
slight, and was fully aware of the honors that 
should be paid to him. Not a man to be lightly 
ignored, nor one whom it was safe to disobey. But 
when obeyed and his wishes consulted, affable and 
generous to a subordinate. His first care was to 
acquaint himself with the resources of the colony. 
He made a rapid tour of the country, examining 
public works and the condition of public and pri- 
vate industries. He was delighted with all he saw, 
but complained of the lack of suitable means of 
transportation; it did not comport with the dignity 
of the representative of the great Louis, to have to 
sit in a frail canoe to be paddled across the great 
rivers. But even that objection might be excused 
in the young colony. 

As a beginning to orderly government, Frontenac 
proposed to revive the distinct orders of sixteeneth 
century society. The elements of the three estates 
existed in the province, to which he determined to 
added a fourth. A few members of noble houses, 
exiled for various reasons, were in Quebec, and to 
these he added some of his own officers. Clergy 
there were in superabundance, and there were mer- 
chants and citizens to represent the third estate. 
Frontenac also organized a group of magistrates 
and members of Council, who did not belong to any 
of the classes. Over all he presided with impressive 
dignity, as a monarch over his court. These estates 
he convoked in the Jesuit church, lent to him for 
the occasion, and delivered to them an eloquent 
harangue, reminding each of its duties to the com- 
monwealth. Words of gracious praise and appre- 
254 



COUNT FRONTENAC 

ciation of each class, were followed by intimations 
of the duties devolving on them respectively. He 
had the tact to praise the King, and invited all 
present to swear loyal obedience to him. 

His next step was to establish regular municipal 
government for Quebec. Three aldermen were to 
be elected by the citizens, the senior of the three to 
be mayor; one of them to go out of office every 
year, and his place to be filled by a new election. 
The one touch of autocracy, to be expected of a 
man of Frontenac's spirit, was the reservation to 
himself of the right to confirm or reject the choice 
of the citizens — an excellent arrangement for the 
times, as affording the element of limited represen- 
tative government; for that reason, however, un- 
acceptable to the Government at home. On report- 
ing what he had done, the King, through Minister 
Colbert, gave him a gentle admonition. The cere- 
mony of summoning the estates and swearing them 
to loyalty was all very well at his inauguration, 
but should be avoided in future. It was incon- 
venient and not in accord with the royal principles 
to have any man constituted a representative of the 
people. Such a man would be liable to take too 
much upon himself, and a regular opposition might 
thus be formed. It was better that, if any peti- 
tions were to be presented, they should come from 
individuals and not from a man clad with authority 
to speak officially. The spirit of French royalty 
spoke there, the spirit that carried to its natural 
development wrecked the throne and sent Louis' 
descendant in the eighteenth century to the guillo- 
tine. Frontenac could not have conceived of a 
catastrophe so horrible to loyal imagination, but he 
was enough of a statesman to perceive that the 
principle was dangerous. But he was new in office 
and had no alternative but to obey. 

The tendency to centralize the government of the 
255 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

province in one head, was increased at this time by 
the withdrawal of Talon, the Intendant or lieu- 
tenant-governor, who was generally a spy, an oppo- 
nent and a thorn in the side of the Governor. He 
returned to France, greatly to Frontenac's satisfac- 
tion, shortly after the inauguration, and his successor 
was not appointed for a time. One rival was thus 
removed from Frontenac's path, which was a great 
satisfaction to a man who could not tolerate rivals. 

It might be expected that matters would now run 
smoothly, there being no regular constituted author- 
ity to dispute the Governor's will; but a new cause 
of conflict speedily arose. Frontenac grew jealous 
of the power of the Church. The priests, he com- 
plained, were under the control of the Jesuits, and 
had a regular system of spies in the capital and 
through the country. One can well understand the 
annoyance this must have given to a man, who, in 
accepting the office of Governor, had a distinct 
idea that the governorship should mend his own 
fortunes. Frontenac was a poor man, and though 
he was too proud and too honorable to make money 
by receiving bribes, there might be means of increas- 
ing his fortune by arrangements which it would be 
well to keep secret from the King. To have a com- 
pany of men scattered through the province, in 
close touch with the people and cognizant of every 
act of the Governor, and with a bishop in Paris to 
whom they could report with the certainty of their 
reports reacliing the King's ear, was intolerable. 
Frontenac, with a rashness and temerity of which 
history should have warned him, antagonized the 
clericals from the beginning. He complained to the 
King that their influence on society was injurious. 
They abused the confessional, set husbands and 
wives at variance and incited children to rebel 
against their parents. As Frontenac well knew, 
such complaints could have little effect with a 
256 



COUNT FRONTENAC 

Catholic monarch, who perfectly understood the 
ways of the priests, and it is surprising that he 
should irritate the priests by making a complant 
that tliey were sure to hear of. Perhaps, he was 
anxious to prepare the way for meeting their charges 
against him. A more diplomatic man would have 
avoided such a rock at the beginning of his admin- 
istration. To his delight, he obtained a legitimate 
basis of complaint. Some bold priest had the cour- 
age to denounce the King himself for licensing the 
sale of brandy, which the Bishop had sternly con- 
demned. Here was Frontenac's opportunity, and 
he promptly reported the offense to the King. The 
Bishop, however, was a better diplomat than the 
Governor. He repudiated the utterances' of the 
obscure priest, bade him make apology, and so, for 
the time, the affair was ended. But the Governor 
and the Church were now in antagonism, and trouble 
for Frontenac was inevitable. 

A new dispute, intensely annoying to Frontenac, 
soon put the trouble with the priests into the back- 
ground. There was at Montreal a Governor named 
Perrot, who was, of course, subordinate to Fronte- 
nac, the Governor-General. He had been appointed 
at the suggestion of Talon, the former Intendant 
of the Colony, whose niece he had married. Perrot 
had a spirit as audacious and a courage as intrepid 
as had Frontenac himself. Evidently a corrupt 
man, who had connived at his soldiers leaving their 
duties to pursue a business injurious to the Govern- 
ment. They went into the woods, and meeting the 
Indians on their way to Montreal with furs, cajoled 
them, or, some said, forced them to deal with them, 
instead of carrying them to market. The merchants 
had bitterly complained of this practice, which was 
destroying their trade. Perrot had listened, and 
blandly assured the merchants that he would gladly 
suppress these men if he could capture them. But 
2.57 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

the merchants knew perfectly well that Perrot was 
in league with them and was sharing in their profits. 
They appealed to Frontenac, v/ho had his own rea- 
sons for being indignant at the smuggling traffic, 
and he sent orders to the Judge of Montreal to 
arrest the first of these men-of-the-woods that he 
could lay hands on. The judge knew that two of 
the most notorious offenders were then living openly 
in the house of a lieutenant named Carion, an officer 
in Perrot's service. The judge, glad of Frontenac's 
authority, promptly arrested the two men, but 
Carion intervened, abused the judge's officer and 
helped the men to escape. When Frontenac heard 
of it, his fury was uncontrollable. He sent an 
officer to bring Carion to Quebec. Perrot inter- 
fered, seized the Governor's officer and put him in 
prison. On consideration, however, he realized the 
danger of so openly insulting the King's represen- 
tative, and tried to make his peace. He released 
the officer and bade him return to his master, with 
a letter in which Perrot apologized and explained. 

Frontenac knew that there would be an end of 
his authority if Perrot was not punished; but he 
had no force capable of arresting him in his own 
domain, protected, as he undoubtedly would be, by 
the desperate men-of-the-woods in league with him. 
He accordingly temporized, wrote a gracious answer 
to Perrot's letter, and intimated that Perrot should 
show his contrition by coming to Quebec, where a 
personal conference might prevent future friction. 
Perrot complied, but Frontenac's mood had changed. 
He deliberately provoked him, and Perrot, as chol- 
eric as himself, answered with insulting defiance. 
This was exactly what Frontenac desired; he seized 
his guest and thrust him into prison. A priest who 
had persuaded Perrot to go to Quebec, a relative 
of the famous Fenelon, was indignant at the result, 
and expressed his feelings in no measured terms. 



COUNT FRONTENAC 

Frontenac arrested him too, and held both for trial. 
He sent a representative of his own to take Perrot's 
place at Montreal, and to proceed against the men- 
of-the-woods. The man was energetic and caught 
several who were promptly hanged, but Frontenac's 
enemies contend that other men-of-the-woods were 
appointed, who, so long as they operated in Fron- 
tenac's interest, enjoyed complete immunity. Mean- 
while, Perrot and F'enelon lay in prison, and not 
until ten months had elapsed were they brought to 
trial. Frontenac would have preferred punishing 
them there, but both had powerful friends in 
France, and the Council shrank from giving offense. 
Finally, both were put on board ship and sent to 
France, Frontenac sending with them a report of 
their offenses. On their arrival, the two reports 
were submitted to the King. He considered them 
with his Minister, Colbert, and decided that he must 
uphold the authority of his representative. He 
therefore consigned Perrot to the Bastile and for- 
bade Fenelon to return to Canada. Writing to 
Frontenac of what he had done, he said that Per- 
rot's imprisonment would be short; he would be 
permitted to return on his undertaking to apologize 
to Frontenac, and the King trusted there would be 
no further friction. 

The King, however, was evidently annoyed by the 
troubles in the Province and by the disputes which 
constantly demanded his intervention. He exhorted 
Frontenac to be more conciliatory and not to take 
upon himself pretensions that had never been made 
by his predecessors. As practical measures to curb 
the haughty Governor, the power of appointing 
Councilors was taken from him, and in future 
would be made by the King himself; and worse 
than all, the office of Intendant, vacant since Talon's 
departure, would be filled by a man n^mied Duches- 
neau. These measures should have moderated Fron- 
259 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

tenac's spirit, and taught him the necessity of a 
more tolerant and conciliatory manner, but they 
appear to have only irritated him. 

Duchesneau's arrival quickly precipitated a con- 
flict. Frontenac regarded him as an upstart and a 
rival, and had been prejudiced against him before 
he saw him. To add to the difficulty, the duties of 
the two men were not clearly defined. The King's 
commission to Duchesneau somewhat changed the 
duties he had to fulfil, from those of his predeces- 
sors, doubtless with the view of sparing Frontenac's 
feelings, but the changes were vaguely stated, and 
Duchesneau looked up the precedents and claimed 
all the privileges formerly enjoyed by the Intendant. 
Frontenac's functions were now properly confined 
to the military command and the place of honor in 
all state ceremonies. The civil administration de- 
volved on Duchesneau. But Frontenac had exer- 
cised uncontrolled power for nearly seven years and 
was indisposed to surrender any part of it. There 
was, therefore, friction from the beginning. The 
Jesuits were not slow to perceive their opportunity. 
They succeeded in winning Duchesneau to their side, 
and cast their powerful aid into his side of the 
quarrel. 

It would be tedious to describe the bickering 
that ensued. Frontenac set at defiance Intendant 
and priests and proceeded to govern as he had done. 
Duchesneau missed no opportunity of thwarting 
him. There were disputes about the presidency of 
the Council and about precedence in church func- 
tions, and, at last, Duchesneau cast aside all pre- 
tensions of amity and openly accused Frontenac of 
maladministration and illicit trading with the In- 
dians. Frontenac stormed, raved and threatened. 
Duchesneau retorted and denounced the Governor. 
The Jesuits plotted on his side and collected, 
through the priests, evidence of Frontenac's com- 
260 



COUNT FRONTExNAC 

plicity in the fur traffic, with which they supplied 
Duchesneau as ammunition in the struggle. By 
every mail, huge packages of charges and counter 
charges went to Paris from both sides. The King 
and his Minister waded through them or left them 
in sheer weariness unread. Louis complained pa- 
thetically that no part of his empire gave him so much 
trouble as Quebec, and finally threatened that he 
would recall both Governor and Intendant. Anger 
and hatred were, however, by this time, too deeply 
seated for even self-interest to appease. All the 
Province was ranged en one side or the other of 
the struggle, and utter confusion reigned. The 
King's patience was finally exhausted, and in 168:2, 
ten years after Frontenac's appointment, both he 
and Duchesneau were deposed and recalled to 
France. 

As a parting shot to his enemies, Frontenac left 
it on record that all the disorders in the country 
had sprung from the ambition of the ecclesiastics, 
who, he wrote, "want to join to their spiritual 
authority an absolute power over things temporal 
and persecute all who do not submit entirely to 
them." They all openly rejoiced over his fall, and 
the merchants whose business had suffered by the 
quarrels of the authorities and perhaps by Fron- 
tenac's dealing with the men-of -the- woods, sympa- 
thized with them. By none was Frontenac's de- 
parture really regretted but by the Indians, by 
whom he was almost worshipped. His haughty 
bearing had impressed them as that of an almost 
supernatural being, and when he condescended to 
address them as his "children," to feast them and 
give them presents, they adored him. Few white 
men so thoroughly succeeded in winning their re- 
spect and confidence. 

Returning to France, Frontenac, at the age of 
sixty-two, found himself almost friendless, in bad 
261 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARINCx 

odor at court and comparatively poor. He hung 
about the court, eagerly devouring the news from 
Canada and keeping himself well before the public 
gaze. To his satisfaction he learned that his suc- 
cessor was failing in his government. He had em- 
broiled himself with powerful tribes of Indians; 
had quarreled with the English Governor of Xew 
York, and was menaced on all sides. Urgent ap- 
peals for troops were coming by every ship, to 
which the King gave small satisfaction. At last, to 
his delight, he heard that he had been recalled. 
The way, however, was not open for Frontenac's 
return. The King had a general in whom he had the 
utmost confidence, who was withal a pious man, who 
could be trusted to live in harmony with the Jes- 
uits. This was General Denoneville, a soldier of 
experience and of sterling probity. He was rap- 
turously received by the ecclesiastics, but Fron- 
tenac soon learned that he was not the man to 
make peace with the Indians. They distrusted him, 
claimed that he deceived them, and made terms 
against him with Dongan, the English Governor of 
New York. He seemed to have a faculty for mak- 
ing enemies at a time when he most urgently needed 
friends. He assailed the English by a wily ruse, 
surprising isolated parties, killing some and taking 
many prisoners. Dongan, restrained by King James 
from retaliating on the representative of liis be- 
loved brother, the French King, incited the Indians 
to attack him, and gave them information and sup- 
plied them with ammunition. The Jesuits, who 
hated the British and had Denoneville in leading 
strings, urged him to other acts of temerity, and 
finally induced him to make war on the powerful 
Indian tribe of Senecas, and later with the Iroquois. 
The French troops were ambushed and a terrible 
massacre ensued. The affairs of the colony were 
then deplorable. King Louis had lost the English 
262 



COUNT FRONTENAC 

alliance and William of Orange had replaced James 
II on the throne. No help was now to be expected 
in that quarter, but rather hostility. The English 
Governor would no longer be restrained, and with 
his Indian allies might sweep the French from 
Canadian soil. In his bewilderment Louis thought 
of Frontenac, and offered to restore him to the 
Governorship. Though Frontenac was sixty-nine 
years old, he had confidence in himself and boldly 
accepted the commission. 

The King had a plan suggested by Callieres, whom 
Denoneville had sent to Paris for retrieving the 
French disasters. It was nothing less than the 
capture of New York by a combined attack of ves- 
sels sailing down the Hudson, and by sea by vessels 
sailing from Quebec. The plan was worked out in 
detail, the King deciding what should be done with 
the captives when they should be taken. The Cath- 
olics were to be released on taking the oath of 
fealty to the French King. Of the Protestants, the 
men who were good for ransom were to be put in 
prison, and the remainder driven away to Penn- 
sylvania and other settlements. The colony at Ply- 
mouth was then to be destroyed and all the North 
would then be in French hands, and the Indians 
could be dealt with at leisure. It was comparatively 
easy to make these plans and to order Frontenac to 
execute them; but Louis could furnish neither 
troops nor money for the expedition. Frontenac 
sailed away, probably amused at the King's cred- 
ulity but uttering no word that could endanger his 
own appointment. 

Frontenac was welcomed as a saviour. Quebec 
was illuminated, cannon fired in welcome and a 
torchlight procession went to the beach to welcome 
him. The Jesuits alone were crestfallen. They 
made him an address of welcome, l)ut they had no 
heart in it and Frontenac understood that it was 
L>63 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

hollow. But the King had enjoined him to bury 
his old quarrels and not to wreck his administration 
on the rock that had ruined his former one. Be- 
sides, the crisis was too urgent to waste time in 
quarreling, and Frontenac settled down to the 
stupendous task before him. 

The scheme to capture New York was dismissed 
without a second thought, and his first efforts were 
devoted to winning over the Iroquois and other 
tribes whom his successors had alienated. In this 
he was doomed to failure, the Indians received his 
messages but they had tasted blood, they had over- 
come the French and had learned to despise them 
and they no longer stood in awe of Frontenac. He 
then turned his attention to the English, and deter- 
mined to strike a blow that would revive the spirit 
of his people- Three parties were rapidly organ- 
ized; one at Montreal to attack Albany, one at 
Three Rivers to assail the settlements of New 
Hampshire, and the third, at Quebec, to march 
against the English in Maine. These expeditions 
were all successful. Schenectady was surprised and 
captured and its defenders slaughtered; Salmon 
Falls fell before the second party, and the settle- 
ment at the site of what is now Portland, Maine, 
after an obstinate defense was overpowered and 
the village burned. The Iroquois were amazed at 
this turn in the tide. The return of Frontenac, 
their venerated patron, had apparently brought back 
the old supremacy. They hesitated and wavered. 
Not so the English, who, exasperated by what they 
deemed treachery, thirsted for revenge. A fleet of 
thirty-two vessels with 2,300 men was hastily or- 
ganized, and under the command of Sir William 
Phips sailed for Quebec. It was a bootless errand. 
Phips' artillery could do nothing against the heights 
of Quebec, his men could not attack the city and 
the English commander retired discomfited. 
264 



COUNT FRONTENAC 

Frontenac had now opportunity to deal with the 
hostile Indians. He now entered on the conflict in 
which he won the title of "the Hammer of the Iro- 
quois." He summoned a council of friendly tribes, 
and, after a feast, took up a hatchet and himself 
led a war dance. The Indians were wildly excited. 
Shouting and whooping like madmen they followed 
in the dance, vowing war to the death against the 
enemies of their French father. The conflict which 
ensued was terrible to think of. It lasted three 
years, the Indians succeeding in barring from the 
French colony all supplies by land, and stopping the 
trade in furs. Isolated massacres continued and the 
deadly enmity was sustained. At length, Fronte- 
nac, by a desperate attack, broke the line on the 
Ottawa and opened tlie way for the delivery of the 
skins and the passage of supplies. The Colony was 
delivered, the famishing people relieved, and the 
coveted beaver skins, the wealth of the merchants, 
received. Frontenac was hailed as the "Preserver 
of his Country," and was overwhelmed with gratitude. 

In the following year, though seventy-six years of 
age, the veteran soldier led an invasion of the Iro- 
quois country. The terror of his name overpowered 
the Indians. They left their villages and fled to the 
forests. Frontenac burned their chief towns, Onon- 
daga and Oneida, and after vainly seeking to come 
up with the fleeing Iroquois, the expedition returned 
in triumph. Quarrels with the English and disputes 
with the priests filled Frontenac's last days. But 
Louis had signed the Peace of Ryswick, and im- 
perative orders were sent to Frontenac to cease 
hostilities with the English, and as for the priests 
they should be let alone. It was well that the 
orders came. Frontenac's fighting days were over. 
He was prostrated with mortal illness, and on 
November 28, 1698, he peacefully breathed his last. 
His tried and troubled life was ended. B. J. F. 
265 



WILLIAM LITHGOW 

WILLIAM LITHGOW M^as, in the spring of 
tlie year 1609, a young Scot of six-and- 
twenty; the possessor of a wiry frame, a slender 
patrimony, and a burning eagerness to see the 
world. It came into his head to make a pilgrimage 
on foot about the globe. At a period when no 
traveler ever thought of crossing Hampstead Heath 
without his pistols, it was certain that a pilgrim 
journeying among the dens of Cretan bandits, or 
steering with a caravan across the deserts to Jeru- 
salem, would not fail to meet adventures. Nor was 
Lithgow at all the man to pass in peace through 
lands of Infidels. He was a burning Protestant, 
with his creed at his tongue's end, and ready — to 
his credit be it said — to be its martyr. For the 
rest, he was a man of generous heart and daring 
courage, but with a head as rash as Harry 
Hotspur's. 

He took his life into his hands, and started. He 
got as far as Rome without disaster; but there he 
began the series of his perils by coming very near 
to being burnt alive. The brazen image of St. Peter 
in the great cathedral moved him to proclaim his 
indignation of what he called idolatry. The Inqui- 
sition sent to seize him, and would assuredly have 
doomed him to the stake and fagot, but for a 
brother Scot named Robert Moggat. This man, 
a servant in the palace of the aged Earl of Tyrone, 
smuggled Lithgow to a garret in the palace roof, 
and there for three days kept him hidden, while the 
hue and cry went up and down the streets. On the 
fourth night, at midnight, the two stole out together 
to the city walls, where Lithgow, with the help of 
266 



WILLIAM LITHGOW 

his companion, dropped in safetj^ to the ground, and 
escaped into the darkness, laughing at his baffled 
foes. 

Alas ! though he little dreamt it, there was a day 
to come, though j^et far distant, when the Holy 
Office was to turn the laugh terrifically against 
him. 

He made his wa}* to Venice, stepped aboard a 
ship for Corfu, and thence set sail for Zante. Off 
Cape St. Maura a sail was spied: it was a pirate 
Turk in hot pursuit. The captain put it to the vote 
among the passengers whether he should fight the 
ship or strike his colors. Every voice but Lith- 
gow's was for pulling down the flag and buying off 
the Turk with ransoms. But Lithgow had no 
money for the purpose, and nothing was before 
him. but the prospect that the Turk would sell him 
as a slave. He therefore gave his vote for fighting; 
he called upon the company to pluck up spirit, to 
quit themselves like men, "and the Lord would 
deliver them from the thraldom of the Infidels." 
Captain, crew, and passengers took fire together at 
his words; they rushed upon the pikes and muskets, 
loaded their two cannon to the muzzle, and received 
the pirate with such fury that he durst not try to 
board. When, however, darkness parted them from 
their assailants, their plight was evil; seven men 
were killed, a dozen more were wounded, Lithgow 
had a bullet in his arm, the ship was leaking through 
the shot-holes, and a tempest was beginning to howl 
fiercely. It seemed as if he had escaped from 
slavery only to be drowned by shipwreck. But, 
by great good luck, the tempest drove them safely 
into Largastolo Bay. 

At Zante a Greek surgeon took the bullet from 

his arm, and he resumed his wanderings. But he 

was soon in new disaster. As he was walking 

through a solitarj^ region on the way to Canea in 

367 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

Crete, four bandits, armed with cudgels, sprang 
upon him from a thicket. In spite of Juvenal's 
authority, the empty pilgrim does not always sing 
before the thief. It was not till after they had 
stripped and cudgeled him that the rogues dis- 
covered that his whole possessions consisted of two 
four-penny pieces. With the good-nature of con- 
tempt they let him go; and, penniless and smarting, 
he dragged his way for thirty-seven miles to the 
next village. There he endeavored, by the help of 
signs (for he knew nothing of the language), to beg 
a supper and a lodging of the natives. But among 
fhe simple villagers of Pichehorno, a stranger was a 
sheep among the wolves. They were preparing, 
without more ado, to plant a dagger in his heart, 
when a woman, more friendly than the rest, in- 
formed him of their purpose by a signal. He took 
to flight, and racing for his life into the darkness, 
gained the shore, and plunged into a cave among 
the rocks. There, famished, aching, and in peril 
of his life, he lay concealed till daybreak. 

In the grey of morning he crept out, and made 
bis way in safety to Canea. Again adventures were 
before him. While he was in the town, six convict- 
galleys put into the bay from Venice. One of the 
prisoners got leave to come on shore, attended for 
precaution by a keeper, and shackled with a heavy 
ankle-ring. Lithgow, who was as curious as a 
monkey, entered into conversation with the culprit, 
and soon learnt his story. He was one of four 
young Frenchmen who had been present at a duel 
between a friend of theirs and a Venetian signor 
for the love of some fair lady. The signor fell; the 
guards came down upon the duelists, who fled for 
refuge to the French ambassador's. Except him- 
self, they all escaped ; he stumbled in the street, 
was seized, was dragged before the signory, and was 
condemned to pull a galley-oar for life. 
26S 



WILLIAM LITHGOW 

The Frenchman chanced to be a Protestant. 
Lithgow's soul took fire with sympathy. He began 
to scheme to set the prisoner free. He borrowed 
from his laundress, who was an old Greek woman, a 
gown and a black veil. Then he drugged the keeper 
until he rolled upon the ground, struck oif the cap- 
tive's irons, dressed him in the gown and veil, and 
sent him with the old Greek woman past the sentries 
at the gate. Lithgow, with the prisoner's gar- 
ments, met them in an olive-grove outside the city; 
and thence the Frenchman fled to a Greek mon- 
astery across the mountains, which was appointed 
as a place of sanctuary for all fugitives from jus- 
tice, and where a man-of-war from Malta touched 
at intervals to take away the refugees. 

The Frenchman was secure; but not so his 
deliverer. As Lithgow was re-entering the city, 
he met two English soldiers of his acquaintance, 
who were rushing out to warn him. The captain 
of the galleys, with a band of soldiers, was seeking 
for him up and down the streets. The danger was 
extreme: but by good fortune it so happened that 
the smallest of the city gates was guarcled by three 
other English soldiers. These five men, who pres- 
ently were joined by eight French soldiers, formed 
a little troop, and with IJthgow in their midst 
marched up the streets towards the monastery of 
San Salvator. The galley-soldiers, who were on 
^he watch, rushed furiously upon the party; but too 
late. While the swords were flashing in the hurly- 
burly Lithgow slipped into the monastery, and was 
secure. 

Here he stayed until the galleys sailed. He 
shared the lodging of four monks for twenty-five 
days. Then, the galleys sailing, he was compara- 
tively safe. He one day made acquaintance with 
another Englishman, named Wolso.n, who had just 
arrived from Tunis. This man was a strange 
269 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

character, and was bound by a strange vow. His 
elder brother, a ship's captain, had been murdered 
at Burnt Isle, in Scotland. Wolson, in reprisal, 
had sworn to take the life of the next Scotchman 
he should meet; and this happened to be Lithgow. 
Wolson resolved to lie in wait for him that very 
night; but luckily, he let out his secret. John 
Smith, who heard him, ran in search of Lithgow, 
whom he found just sitting down to supper at 
a tavern. The host, together with four soldiers who 
were there, resolved to see him home. The assassin, 
a true Bobadil, espied the party, and his heart 
forsook him. Finding that he could not take his 
victim by surprise, he slunk away to bide a better time. 

Before he found his chance, however, Lithgow 
had set sail from Crete, to cruise among the islands 
of the Cyclades, on board a vessel which was little 
better than a fishing-smack, and carried only 
eighteen souls. At Eolida, a storm swept oif the 
masts and sails, and drove the boat upon the rocks. 
Seven of the crew, insane with terror, leapt into the 
boiling surf, and were never seen again; the others 
with great labor worked the boat into a cavern, the 
back of which sloped upward from the sea. Lith- 
gow was the last to disembark; for the sailors swore 
to put a bullet through his skull if he should dare to 
step before them. Scarcely had he landed when the 
boat went down. 

The cave was cut off by the waters, and the 
wrecked men had no food. Three days passed, and 
the specters in the cavern were beginning to regard 
each other with the eyes of wolves, when a fishing- 
boat came by, and heard their hail. A little later, 
and Lithgow, who had so narrowly escaped already 
from the stake, the pirates, the banditti, the galleys, 
the assassin, and the shipwreck, would probably 
have furnished forth a meal for his companions. 

He made his way at leisure across Turkey, and 
270 



WILLIAM LITHGOW 

joined a caravan of pilgrims bound through Syria 
to Jerusalem. His dress was now a Turk's, with 
turban, robe, and staif; and while nil the others 
rode on camels, horses, or asses, he walked on foot, 
according to his constant custom, beside his bag- 
gage-mule. 

The caravan had hired a guide named Joab, who 
called himself a Christian, but who proved to be a 
traitor. This rascal planned to lead the caravan 
into an ambush of three hundred murderous Arabs 
of Mount Carmel, with whom he was in league, 
who were to butcher every man among them, and 
to gorge themselves with plunder. The plot was 
excellent; it seemed certain of success: but fortu- 
nately Joab feared to reach the place of ambush 
before the time appointed, and by lingering up and 
down through rugged spots and pools of water, he 
awoke suspicion. A Turkish soldier of the party 
then remembered having seen him send a Moor 
from Nazareth on some mysterious errand. At this, 
the guide was seized, was lashed upon a horse, 
and, under threats of death, confessed his treachery. 

And now all was panic; every face was white 
with terror; for while to trust the guide was mad- 
ness, night was falling, the ambush was in waiting, 
and they might walk into the trap. In the midst 
of the confusion Lithgow noticed that the polar star 
hung lov\^, and judged that they had been conducted 
too far south. He cried out to the caravan to turn 
northwest, lest they should fall into the snare. But 
not a soul except himself could read the mystery of 
the star, and he was called upon to take the place 
of guide. And thus there came to pass a spec- 
tacle strange even to grotesquesness — the spectacle 
of thirteen hundred terror-stricken Turkish and 
Armenian pilgrims following a Scotchman all night 
long, across a moon-lit desert in the heart of Syria. 

When day broke, the caravan was half a mile 
271 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

from Tyre; the ambush was escaped. Another 
guide was taken, the journey was resumed, and in 
due course, Lithgow found himself before Jerusalem. 

There was, within the city, a monastery of Cor- 
deliers, whose duty was to welcome Christian pil- 
grims. The Prior came out to ask if any such 
were in the caravan. The only one was Lithgow, 
A pilgrim from so far a country was held a kind of 
saint; and the Prior, with twelve monks, walked 
before him through the streets, each carrying a 
huge wax candle, and chanting a Te Deum. Within 
the monastery, the Abl)ot washed his feet and the 
monks knelt down to kiss them. But in the middle 
of the ceremony Lithgow happened to observe that 
he was not a Catholic. In an instant the monk's 
faces grew a yard in length. They had lavished all 
this glory on a heretic ! 

Lithgow, however, could not well be ousted; he 
remained — a saint descended to a guest. One day 
a party from the convent, under the Abbot and a 
guard of soldiers, set out to view the Jordan. 
Before the pilgrims turned, they stripped to bathe, 
and Lithgow, before dressing, took a whim to climb 
a tree upon the margin and to cut a hunting-rod 
which he designed to take to England as a present 
to King James. As he sat concealed among the 
leaves, trimming "a fair rod, three yards long, 
wondrous straight, full of small knots, and of a 
yellow color," a strange sound struck his ears. He 
peered out through the leaves; his companions had 
gone off without him, and were now waging a fierce 
battle with a band of Arabs a quarter of a mile 
away. He was caught in a trap; for while to ven- 
ture forth was deadly peril, to be left behind was 
certain death. Lithgow tumbled from his tree, and, 
rod in hand, but without a stitch of clothing, 
darted towards the place of combat. The thorns 
and sharp grass gashed his feet; a pikeman of his 
£'73 



WILLIAM LITHGOW 

own side charged him as an enemy; but at last, to 
the amazement of the pilgrims, who scarcely recog- 
nized this light-armed warrior, he came rushing 
among them, panting to aid the battle with his rod. 
But the fight was over, and the beaten pilgrims 
were discussing terms of ransom. The Abbot, scan- 
dalized at his appearance, gave him his own gown; 
and Lithgow, who had started as a turbaned Turk, 
returned as a grey friar. 

From Jerusalem he wandered up and dovi^n the 
earth until he chanced to meet, at Algiers, a French 
jewel-merchant named Chatteline, who was on his 
way to Fez to purchase diamonds. Lithgow joined 
him. The pair reached Fez in safety, and thence 
resolved to strike across the desert to Arracon. 
With a tent, a mule, a dragoman, and two Moorish 
slaves, the bold adventurers set out on foot. Lith- 
gow was a man who never seemed to know fatigue; 
but in eight days Chatteline was so exhausted that 
his companions were compelled to add him to the 
baggage on the mule, and to carry him to Ahezto, 
where he fell into a fever and refused to stir. Lith- 
gow, with a guide, the dragoman, and one of the 
two slaves, went on without him. When the guide 
had led them four days' march, he missed the track, 
stole off in terror in the night, and left them help- 
less in the middle of the desert. 

Nothing seemed before them but a lingering 
death. In four days their food was gone. All 
night the wolves and jackals were heard howling, 
which, as soon as weakness forced them to let out 
their little fire of sticks, would pick them to the 
bone. One the eighth day a foe more terrible than 
wolves or jackals came suddenly upon them — a 
horde of naked savages, driving before them a vast 
flock of sheep and goats, and bloody with the 
slaughter of a neighboring tribe. 

The wanderers were dragged before the savage 
213 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

prince — a potentate appareled, to the awe and 
admiration of his subjects, in a veil of crimson 
satin and a pair of yellow shoes. To him Lithgow, 
through the dragoman, related his adventures. The 
eifect was marvelous. His dusky majesty was so 
delighted with the story, that he not only spared 
the prisoners' lives, but granted them a guide to 
Tunis, and presented I^ithgow, as a kind of keep- 
sake, with his own bow and arrows. 

This memento inspired him with a project. The 
rod for Jordon was designed for James I ; he 
would present the bow and arrows to Prince Charles, 
the King's son. 

But would he get those treasures — or himself 
— to England safely? It was his plan to traverse 
Poland. For a time he made his way without 
disaster; but one daj', while passing, lonely and 
on foot, through one of the vast solitary forests of 
Moldavia, six robbers sprang upon him from a 
thicket, seized his money, stripped him naked, tied 
him to an oak-tree, and left him to the wolves. 

Nothing seemed more certain than that the end 
of his adventures was at last at hand. But Lithgow, 
like some other rare characters, who came unscathed 
from perils which to the villains would be certain 
death, seemed charmed against destruction. All 
that night the voices of the wild beasts filled the 
forest; but not one approached to rend him. At 
break of day a band of shepherds found him. They 
cut his bonds, wrapped liim in an old long coat, 
and bore him to the castle of their lord, a certain 
Baron Starholds, fifteen miles away. The Baron 
was a Protestant; he received the pilgrim with 
great hospitality, kept him for a fortnight in the 
castle, gave him a purse, and sent him with a guide 
to Poland. 

Lithgow reached Dantzic; fell so ill of fever that 
the sexton dug his grave; recovered as by miracle; 
274 



WILLIAM LITHGOW 

and thence took ship to London. His curiosities, 
which the robbers had contemptuously discarded, 
were still in his possession; and Lithgow, who in 
that age was himself a greater curiosity, was pre- 
sented to King James at Greenwich Gardens, and 
made to King and Prince his offerings of the rod 
from Jordan and the bow and arrows of the savage 
chief. 

He stayed some time in London, where he wrote 
and printed an account of his adventures. But 
LHysses was not worse adapted for a settled life. 
Ere long the ache for roving became irresistible, 
and he determined to set forth on pilgrimage once 
more. He had better, had he known it, have cut 
off his right foot; for now there lay before him an 
adventure to which all his previous perils were as 
nursery games — an adventure strange and terrible 
as ever mortal man escaped ali%'e to tell of. 

King James supplied him wi+^^h safe-conducts, 
and with letters to the courts of foreign sovereigns. 
He wandered for a time in Ireland; then he crossed 
the Channel, and made his way into the south of 
Spain. On reaching Malaga he struck a bargain 
with a skipper of a French ship bound next day 
for Alexandria. But he was fated never to set 
sail. 

That night the town was thrown into a tumult ; 
a cloud of strange ships, vague as phantoms in the 
darkness, were seen to sail into the harbor and cast 
anchor. A rumor ran abroad like wild-fire that 
the ships were Turkish pirates; and forthwith the 
town went wild with terror. Women and children 
fled into the fortress; the castle bells rang back- 
wards; the drums thundered an alarm. But when 
day broke, the English colors were seen flying at 
the topmasts; it was a squadron which had been 
despatched against the corsairs of Algiers. 

The panic seemingly subsided. Lithgow took a 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DARING AND DANGER 

boat and went on board the Lion to sahite the 
Admiral, Sir Robert Mainsell. Sir Robert invited 
him to join the fleet, with which were many of his 
old acquaintances from London; but time pressed, 
and Lithgow's clothes and papers were on shore. 
Accordingly, as soon as the sails spread, he stepped 
into a fishing-boat and put to land. 

But jealous eyes had been upon him. As he was 
passing up a narrow street to gain his lodging, a 
band of soldiers burst upon him, seized him by the 
throat, muffled him in a black frieze mantle, and 
bore him to the governor's house, where he was 
locked up in a room. He could not guess the 
charge against him; but he was soon to learn. 
The governor, the captain of the guards, and the 
town-clerk entered, the latter armed with pen and 
ink to take down his confession. Lithgow, of 
course, had nothing to confess; but the captain, 
Don Francesco, "clapping him on the cheek with 
a Judas smile," bade him acknowledge that he had 
just arrived from Seville. On his denying this, the 
governor burst into a storm of curses. "Villain !" 
he cried, "you are a spy. You have been a month 
at Seville, keeping watch upon the Spanish navy, 
and have just visited the English fleet with your 
intelligence." Lithgow offered to call witnesses to 
prove that he was nothing but a simple pilgrim; 
but in vain. He produced his papers with King 
James's seal; but these the judges held to be a 
blind. It was resolved to force him to confession. 

A sergeant was called in to search him. In his 
purse were found eleven ducats; a hundred and 
thirty-seven gold pieces were sewn into the collar of 
his doublet. This treasure-trove the governor put 
into his own pocket. The sergeant and two Turkish 
slaves then seized him, bore him to a cell above the 
governor's kitchen, threw him down upon his back, 
and chained him immovably to the stone floor. One 
27Q 



WILLIAM LITHGOW 

of the two slaves, whose name was Hazior, lay 
clown before the door by way of guard, and he was 
left to pass the first night of his misery. 

Next day the governor came to him alone. He 
urged the prisoner, as he hoped for pardon, to 
confess that he had been a spy. At his denial, the 
governor roared out furiously that he should feel 
the rack. He then gave orders that the captive 
should receive three ounces of dry bread and a pint 
of water every second day — fare just igufiicient to 
keep bod}^ and soul together, while h^s strength 
wasted to the lowest ebb. He also ordered that the 
window should be walled up, and the grating in the 
door stopped up with mats. The cell was turned 
into a tomb; and here, in pitchy darkness, gnawed 
by hunger, and in daily expectation of the rack, 
Lithgow wore away seven weeks of horror, chained 
motionless on the bare stones. 

It was five days before Christmas; the time was 
two o'clock at night; when he was awakened from 
his feverish slumber by the sound of a coach drawn 
up outside his prison. The cell-door opened, and 
nine sergeants entered, who bore him, chains and 
all, into the coach. Two took their seats beside 
him, while the others ran on foot; and the coach, 
of which the driver was a negro, rolled swiftly from 
the city westward. At the distance of a league it 
pulled up at a lonely vineyard; the prisoner was 
lifted from the coach, was carried to a room within 
the building of the winepress, and was left, still 
chained, until the morning. He could only guess 
what was before him. He had been brought there 
to be tortured. 

Late in the afternoon the three inquisitors came 
in; the victim, for the last time, was exhorted to 
confess that he had been a spy, and of course again 
denied it. He was then carried to another room. 
Against the wall was a thick frame of wood, shaped 
277 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

like a triangle, in the sides of which were holes, 
with ropes and turning-pin. This was the rack. 

The tormentor stripped him, and struck off his 
ankle-rings; one with such violence as to tear his 
heel. Then he was lashed upon the rack. 

It was about five o'clock. From that time till 
ten he lay there in agony. As if the torture of the 
cords, which cut the flesh into the sinews, was not 
fierce enough, at intervals his jaws were forced 
apart, and a stream of water from a jar impelled 
into his throat, so that he was kept half -drowning. 
When he fainted in his agony, a little wine was 
given him, to bring him round. At last, when it 
seemed likely that the victim, who was weaker than 
a child with famine, would escape their hands by 
giving up the ghost, he was taken from the rack, 
his gnashed and broken limbs were loaded with his 
irons, he was driven back to his old dungeon, and 
once more bolted to the stones. 

As before, he was left to starve on bread and 
water; but now, by order of his persecutors, baskets 
of ants were emptied on his mangled body, from 
whose maddening irritation he could do nothing to 
relieve himself; for, even had he been unchained, 
his arms were broken and incapable. His misery 
was such as moved the pity even of the Turkish 
slave. Hazior, at the risk of his own safety, some- 
times swept the ants into heaps with oil, and set 
them in a blaze. Occasionally he also brought the 
starving prisoner secretly a bunch of raisins or a 
handful of dry figs. It is probable that, meager as 
it was, this addition to the captive's pittance saved 
his life. 

In the meantime the governor had discovered that 
he was no spy. Unluckily, he had, at the same time, 
been looking over Lithgow's papers. The latter 
had, when at Loretto, been shown the cottage of 
the Virgin INIary which is said to have miraculously 
278 



WILLIAM LITHGOW 

flown from Palestine, and had dubbed the story "a 
vain toy." To the governor the case was clear; the 
Virgin Mary, in permitting Lithgow to be tortured 
as a spy, had wrought a miracle against a scoffer. 
He went to Lithgow's cell, and told him bluntly 
that, unless he wished to burn alive, he must within 
a week turn Catholic. 

But the governor knew nothing of his man. Lith- 
gow, roused like a wounded war-horse . who smells 
battle, instantly poured forth an argument to prove 
that the Pope was an impostor. The governor re- 
tired in anger. Next day he brought two Jesuits to 
assist him; but in a little while he lost his temper, 
kicked IJthgow in the face as he lay upon the floor, 
and, but for the two Jesuits, would have stabbed 
him with a knife. On the last day of the week he 
changed his tactics. Lithgow was assured that, at 
a single word, he should be taken from his cell to 
a luxurious chamber, to be nursed and fed on 
dainties — that he should regain his property, be 
sent to England, and receive a yearly pension of 
three hundred ducats. If, on the other hand, he 
still held out, he should that night be tortured in 
his cell; after which he should, at Easter, be re- 
moved to Granada, to be burnt alive at midnight, 
and his ashes cast into the air. 

L^p to this moment Lithgow, though a victim, 
had not been a martyr — his escape had not de- 
pended on himself. But now a syllable would set 
him free — and he disdained to speak it. 

That night the torturer was brought into his cell. 
At first the water-torment was applied. When he 
had suffered all the agony of drowning, he was 
strung up to the cell-roof by his toes until he 
fainted. Then, having been restored with wine, 
he was once more bolted to the floor. His enemies 
had left him just suflBcient strength to lift up his 
weak voice and sing defiance in a psalm. 
379 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

And now nothing was before him but the mar- 
tyr's fire. It was Mid-Lent; in a fortnight he must 
mount the fagot. Nor is there any kind of doubt 
that Litligow would, at the appointed time, have 
sung his psalm amidst the flames, but for the 
strange and striking freak of fate about to be 
described. 

One night, it happened that a Spanish cavalier 
from Graiiada was taking supper with the governor, 
who, for the amusement of his guest, related Lith- 
gow's story. The servant of the cavalier, a Fleming, 
listened from behind his master's chair. The tale 
of terror chilled his blood; all night it robbed him 
of his rest. At dawn he stole oif to the English 
Consul and told him all he knew. The Consul went 
to work with speed. The case was laid before the 
King of Spain. On Easter Saturday, at midnight, 
the governor received a mandate which made him 
tjar his beard. His victim was to be instantly set 
free. 

The cell door was thrown open; but the captive 
could as soon have flown out of his prison as have 
walked out on his feet. Hazior took him on his 
shoulders a^d conveyed him to the dwelling of an 
English merchant near at hand, whence he was 
carried in a swinging blanket to a British man- 
of-war, the Vanguard, which lay at anchor in the 
bay. Three days later he was bound for England. 

Lithgow was wavering between life and death. 
Every care that pity could devise was lavished on 
him; but when the ship reached Deptford seven 
weeks later, he had not risen from his couch. The 
fame of his adventure spread before him. King^ 
James himself desired to see him; and Lithgow, 
borne upon a feather bed, was carried to a private 
gallery, where the King, together with the lords 
and ladies of the Court, flocked eagerly about his 
mattress, and broke into cries of horror and com- 
280 



WILLIAM LITHGOW 

passion at the sight of the scarred, shrunk body, 
and the visage like a corpse's, which they had seen 
a few months earlier so full of life. The King 
himself was so much moved with pity that he 
ordered Lithgow, at his own expense, to be conveyed 
to Bath, and nursed back into strength. 

In that pleasant city Lithgow passed six months. 
By slow degrees his health returned to him; but 
there were tokens of the wild beast's den which he 
would carry to his grave. The fingers of one hand 
were drawn into the palm by the contraction of the 
sinews; the crushed bones of one arm remained ill- 
set; and his right foot was lamed for life. 

By the King's agency, the Spanish Envoy, Don 
Drego Sarmento de Gardamore, had undertaken 
that he should receive his property from Malaga, 
together with a thousand pounds as a solatium for 
his wrongs. When, however, Lithgow came from 
Bath to London, the Envoy seemed inclined to 
shuffle from the bond. Lithgow, never the most 
patient of mankind, waited and fretted, and at last 
went mad with passion. In the presence-chamber 
of the jialace he flew at the astounded Don, and 
beat him with his fists. The lords-in-waiting pulled 
him off; but not before the Don had suffered 
severely. 

The public sympathy was all with Lithgow; but 

the offense to the decorum of a Court was gross, 

and he was sentenced to be kept for nine weeks in 

the Marshalsea. The punishment was light enough; 

; but he had made a deadly enemy of Don Drego, 

j and' of his thousand pounds he never got a shilling. 

This was his last adventure and misfortune. 

I From that time forth, until his death in 1640, he 

i roamed abroad no more. During his life he was, 

I by those who knew his story, regarded as a hero 

and a martyr. To those who know his story, he is 

a hero and a martyr still. 

281 



CASANOVA 

ON the morning of the 35th of July, 1755, a 
prisoner, attended hy a jailer and two archers 
of the guard, passed across the Bridge of Sighs at 
Venice to the cells of the Piombi. The captive was 
a man of thirty, tall and strong in figure, with a 
face of Mephistopheles, an African complexion, 
and a pair of glittering eyes. His dress was that 
of a Venetian noble— a flowered coat laced with 
silver, a yellow vest, breeches of red satin, and a 
hat with a white plume. The charge against him 
was a strange one. He had been condemned by the 
Inquisitors of State as a wizard who had sold his 
sold to Satan. 

This man was Casanova, the tale of whose cap- 
tivity and strange escape we are about to tell. But 
first we must glance back at the events to which his 
present plight was owing. What was the story of 
this man of magic? 

Briefly, it was this: — 

His father, Gaetan Casanova, a man of ancient 
Spanish race, having tossed away his property at 
twenty-eight, joined a troop of strolling players, in 
which lie occupied a place so humble that a cobbler, 
with whose pretty daughter of sixteen he fell in love 
at Venice, disdained him as a son-in-law. Gaetan, 
in this predicament, ran off with the girl, whose 
name was Zanetta, and married her in secret; and 
on the 2d of April, 1735, their first child, Jacques, 
was born. The troop of actors was soon after- 
wards engaged to start for London, and the child 
was left at Venice with his grandmother — the cob- 
l.'ler's wife. He was brought up well and kindly; 
383 



CASANOVA 

but his constitution was not strong; and at eight 
years old habitual fits of bleeding at the nose re- 
duced him to a specter. One of the earliest of his 
recollections was that of being taken, dripping- 
blood, to the den of an old crone, who had the 
reputation of a witch, of finding the hag squatting 
on a mat amidst a circle of black cats, of being 
shut up in a great chest, chanted over by the sor- 
ceress, and half-stifled with the smoke of burning 
drugs. The incantation or the fuming spices seemed 
for a time to have restored him; but soon the 
bleeding fits returned more stubbornly than ever. 
As a last resource, it was resolved to try a change 
of air; and on the day when he was nine years old 
he was sent to school at Padua. There his life was 
far from happy. His food was bad and scanty; 
and at night he slept, with three or four compan- 
ions, in an attic where the rats, which ran in 
swarms across his pallet, froze his blood with hor- 
ror. But the air of Padua worked wonders; the 
fits of bleeding ceased; his health returned; his 
appetite became so ravenous that often he was 
forced to creep at dead of night into the kitchen, 
to prey upon the herrings and the sausages which 
hung drying in the smoke of the great chimney. 

In school his ready wits soon made him the best 
scholar in his class; nor was it long before he knew 
as much of logic and of Latin as his master, as 
well as of an art, which afterwards proved much 
more useful to him, how to play the violin. At 
fourteen, his mother, who had prospered on the 
stage, placed him in the University of Padua. That 
great seat of learning then drew students from all 
parts of Europe; but Casanova fell in with a set of 
riotous companions, and added chiefly to his stock 
of knowledge how to gamble, how to run up debts 
with jewelers and tailors, and how to knock dov.n 
watchmen in the streets at night. Nevertheless, at 
2SS 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

sixteen he read the Latin theme for his degree of 
Doctor, and, at his mother's wish, at once took 
orders in the Church. 

But Casanova was not destined to adorn the 
Church. Pleasure-loving, giddy, vain, with little 
conscience, clerical duties turned out by no means 
to his taste. The necessity of clipping oif his locks 
hurt him to the soul; and having, on the feast day 
of St. Joseph, been selected to pronounce a sermon, 
he signalized the choice by dining with some gay 
companions instead, greatly to the scandal of his flock. 

It was then proposed that he should spend a 
period of retirement in a college of theology at St. 
Cyprian. He entered; but, as he took no pains to 
keep the rules of the establishment, he found him- 
self, in no long time, locked up for punishment in 
the prison of St. Andrew — a fort which stood, 
surrounded by the water, just at the spot where, 
on Ascension day, the Doges cast the ring into the 
sea. It was thought that here at least he would be 
out of mischief; but the notion was an error. Casa- 
nova got into worse scrapes than ever. 

Then the Bishop of Martorano, who was ac- 
quainted with his mother, promised to look after 
him, and to push his fortunes; and Casanova, with 
money in his purse, and with a well-filled trunk, set 
out by way of Rome and Naples to the Bishop's 
See. He had, however, only reached Chiozza when 
he fell in with some evil companions, and lost every 
coin in his possession. 

And now a certain natural gift of knavery began 
to manifest its presence in him. At Naples he 
came across a wealthy Greek, who had a stock of 
quicksilver to sell. Casanova took a jar of quick- 
silver, added secretly some lead and bismuth, and 
showed the Greek his quicksilver increased in 
bulk. The Greek, eager to acquire the art of con- 
juring three jars of quicksilver into four, pur- 
284 



CASANOVA 

chased the secret for a hundred sequins. It was 
left him to discover, what Casanova had omitted to 
inform him, that although he had increased his 
stock-in-trade, his quicksilver was spoilt. 

In the meantime, Casanova traveled at his ease 
to Martorano. Already he beheld in his mind's eye 
the Bishop's palace, gay with company, with books 
and pictures and dainty dishes. He found the pre- 
late in a crazy dwelling, of which the furniture was 
such that a mattress for himself had to be dragged 
oflF the Bishop's bed. The whole income of the See 
was eighty pounds a year. Cowkeepers and mar- 
ketwomen were the sole society. Casanova cast a 
glance upon the congregation gathered in the 
chapel, besought the Bishop's blessing and dis- 
missal, and, sixteen hours after his arrival, started 
back to Rome. 

He was weary of the Church. Nature, he thought, 
in his opinion, had designed him for a soldier, and 
he determined to let Nature have her way. He left 
Rome as an abbe; but to the amazement of his 
friends at Venice, he reappeared there, blazing in a 
gorgeous uniform, with purple vest, gold epaulets, 
and red cockade. To account for those insignia, 
to which his only right was that of having paid a 
I tailor for them, he proclaimed that he had just been 
serving in the troops of Spain. Nobody believed 
this story; and he speedily discovered, to his great 
vexation, that, like the jackdaw in the peacock's 
feathers, he ran some risk of being laughed at. To 
stop the mouths of scoffers, he bought an ensignship 
in one of the State troops, then posted at Corfu; 
but as he still desired to visit Constantinople, he 
was granted leave of absence for six months to 
make a trip there. 

Accordingly, he sailed from Venice. The voyage 
at first was easy; but off the island of Curzola a 
storm sprang up which put the ship in peril. The 
285 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

chaplain, an ignorant and superstitious priest, took 
his stand on deck, and, with his missal in his hand, 
prayed loudly to the demons of the storm. Casa- 
nova laughed, whereon the priest denounced him as 
an atheist, a Jonah who had called the tempest on 
their heads. The sailors, white Math terror, were 
not long in acting on this hint. One of them crept 
stealthily to Casanova, watched his moment, and 
pushed him over the ship's side. Nothing but a 
miracle of fortune saved him. As he fell, the fluke 
of the ship's anchor caught his coat and held him 
swinging in mid-air. There the sailors left him, 
but a soldier who was on the vessel flung him down 
a rope and haided him to the deck. The crew were 
clamoring to fling him back again, when the priest 
discovered that the culprit had about him a Greek 
parchment which professed to be a love charm. 
Here, plainly, was the reason of the tempest. A 
brazier was fetched, the charm was thrown upon 
the coals, and, as the burning parchment writhed 
and cracked, the priest cried out that it was a fiend 
in torment. Fortunately, at the same time the wind 
began to fall; the sailors lost their terror; and 
Casanova was allowed to live. 

At Constantinople, Casanova, bearing the letter 
from the cardinal, called on Osman Pasha, whose 
help, however, he no longer needed. The Pasha 
was a curious character. His true name was Count 
Bonneval; he had been an officer at Venice, but had 
transformed himself into a Turk to gain the favor 
of the Sultan. He was now an old man, jovial, fat 
and lazy. His friendly welcome was succeeded by a 
dinner. At the Pasha's table Casanova made ac- 
quaintance with a fine old Turk, named Josouf Ali, 
a man of wealth and a philosopher. Ali conceived 
for Casanova an amazing liking, repeatedly invited 
him to his own house, and there discussed with him 
for hours the doctrines of the Prophet. At last this 
x?86 



CASANOVA 

curious friendship reached a climax. Ali had a 
daughter of fifteen, named Zehiie, whose lustrous 
eyes and skin of alabaster, the ease with which she 
talked in Greek and in Italian, the skill with which 
she painted, worked in wools, and warbled to her 
harp, charmed her friends. He proposed that Casa- 
nova should become a Turk, should marry Zelnie, 
and should, at the same time, become possessor of 
her dowry, a palace, a troop of slaves, and an 
abundant income. 

Casanova was dumbfounded. The offer dazzled 
him; but still he wavered. To be a turbaned Turk, 
to learn to jabber a barbaric lingo, to hide for life 
his brilliance in obscurity, above all to run the risk 
of finding Zelnie, when the marriage- veil was lifted, 
not quite the paragon her father thought her — 
these things made him pause. It was not, however, 
till the eve of his departure that he decided to 
decline. Ali, so far from being piqued at this 
magnanimous refusal, piled the vessel's deck with 
rich mementos of his friendship — mementos which 
Casanova, when the ship touched Corfu, immediately 
converted into cash. 

At Corfu, where he joined his regiment, every- 
thing seemed in his favor. He was rich, gay, 
popular among his comrades, welcomed in the best 
society. He passed there just a year. At the end 
of that time he had been ruined at the gaming 
table, had pawned his jewelry, was hopelessly in 
debt, and had lost his chances of promotion. Hav- 
ing made the town too hot to hold him, he arrived 
at the conclusion that the army was no place for a 
philosopher. He sold his commission for a hundred 
sequins, and returned forthwith to Venice. Soon 
all his money was gone. In order to keep himself 
from perishing of hunger, he was glad to earn a 
pittance as a violinist in the theater of St. Samuel. 

His companions in this new position, when the 
28T 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

play was over, would sally, flushed with wine, into 
the streets, to bully quiet passengers, to skirmish 
with the guards, to cut the ropes of gondolas, to 
set the church-bells pealing an alarm, and to send 
physicians and confessors to the beds of men in 
perfect health. Casanova was, for nearly half a 
year, a ruling spirit of this gang of worthies. But 
a freak of fortune was again before him. 

One night, on issuing from a palace where he 
had been fiddling at a wedding dance, he saw a 
signor in a scarlet cloak, who was descending to 
his gondola, drop a letter on the steps. Casanova 
restored the letter to its owner, who, in return, on 
finding that they were going in the same direction, 
invited him to step into his boat. Casanova did so, 
and they started; but as they glided up the long 
canal, the signor suddenly fell forward in a fit. 
Casanova sprang ashore, brought a surgeon running 
in his nightcap, and having seen the patient bled, 
conveyed him to his palace and took his post at the 
bedside. The surgeon applied a plaster made of 
mercury to the sick man's chest, and left him for 
the night; but by the action of the drug the patient 
in a little while was gasping in convulsions, and to 
all appearance dying. Casanova plucked the plaster 
off again — and by that simple action made his 
fortune. Next day the patient was much better. 
He vowed that the doctor was a quack, that he 
owed his life to Casanova, and that no other should 
attend him ; and thus it came to pass, that when the 
doctor made his visit in the morning he found the 
upstart fiddler in his place, and rushed out of the 
house in rage and horror. 

Thus, strangely turned into a sage, Casanova set 
himself to play the part. Signor Bragadin, though 
one of the most illustrious lords of Venice, was 
superstitious to the point of mania. Casanova de- 
livered his opinions with an air so solemn, he quoted 
288 



CASANOVA 

from the works of learned writers (which he had 
never read) with such felicity and ease, that Bra- 
gadin believed his wisdom supernatural. He hinted 
this belief to Casanova — and Casanova was ready 
with a story. He confessed that an ancient hermit, 
whose cave was in the mountains of Carpegna, had 
revealed to him the mystery of Solomon's secret, 
which is the art of prophesying by the use of 
numbers — a secret which he himself was forbidden 
to reveal, under pain of dying suddenly within three 
days. Bragadin, to whom the art of sorcery was 
the most sublime of sciences, panted to consult the 
oracle. Under the promptings of the prophet it 
responded, as oracles in all ages have responded, 
sometimes clearly, sometimes darkly, but never so 
as to be caught in error. The signor was in 
ecstasies. As he could not work the augury him- 
self, he resolved to keep possession of the augur; 
and forthwith Casanova, to his own amazement, 
found himself installed in rich apartments in the 
palace, his pockets full of money and a troop of 
lackeys at his service, proclaimed to all the world 
of Venice as Signor Bragadin's adopted son. 

He had already been by turns an abbe, a beggar, 
an ensign, and a fiddler. He was now a combina- 
tion of quack, prophet, and grandee. Except when 
called upon to work his oracle, he had no task but 
to amuse himself. It is perhaps not strange that 
he was soon in new disaster. 

One of his acquaintances, a merchant named 
! Demetrio, whose jealousy he had excited, contrived 
a trick to make him look ridiculous. Demetrio 
sawed the plank which ran across a certain boggy 
trench, with the result that Casanova, who was the 
first among a troop of gay companions to pass over, 
fell plump into the bog up to the ears. A crowd of 
rustics hauled him out with ropes, an indistinguish- 
able lump of mud, at which his giddy comrades 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

screamed with laughing. Burning to requite this 
witticism, Casanova crept by night into a burial- 
ground, cut off the arm of a dead body, hid himself 
beneath Demetrio's bed, and at the dead of night 
began to tug at the blankets. Demetrio, waking, 
cried to the tomfool beneath him, that it was vain 
to try to scare him with a ghost; at the same time 
he made a snatch into the darkness, caught the 
dead hand, which Casanova suddenly released, and 
instantly fell backwards in a swoon of terror. He 
had literally been scared out of his senses. 

This outrageous act aroused a perfect tempest. 
Demetrio's friends burst into vows of vengeance; 
the inquisitors prepared to seize the culprit on a 
charge of sacrilege. Casanova was compelled to flee 
from Venice. Being well supplied with money, he 
wandered from city to city at his ease. At Paris, 
where his younger brother, afterwards the famous 
painter, was then studying, he resided for some . 
time; and as he was a scholar, a talker, and a boon 
companion, ever ready to play, to quote Ariosto, or 
to write a ballad to a lady's eyebrow, the society 
of wits and beauties opened to him readily. He 
also worked his oracle; and here again he found 
no lack of people panting to be dupes. Sober 
merchants consulted him about the safety of their 
argosies; and a cynic might find food for mirth in 
the reflection that the Duchess of Chartres herself 
sent for him to the Palais Royal, and demanded of 
his oracle how to cure her pimples. 

At length, the danger having, as he thought, sub- 
sided, he returned to Venice. But in this he was 
in error. The charge of sacrilege was not revived 
against him; but reports of his prophecies had been 
noised abroad; he was accused of practising unholy 
arts; and the spies of the Inquisition were upon his 
track. One of these was ready with a proof that 
Casanova was in league with Satan. Another spy, 
290 



CASANOVA 

who gained admittance to his chamber on pretense 
of showing him some jewels, observed some books 
on sorcery lying on the table — Solomon's Charms, 
The Conjurations of the Demons, Zecor-ben, and 
Planetary Hours. Casanova's purse was just then 
empty; and the spy, under the pretext of selling 
these rare works at a high price to a virtuoso, bore 
them straight to the inquisitors. The next day 
he returned them; but in the meantime Casanova's 
fate was sealed. 

A few mornings later, before daybreak, as he 
was sleeping in his bed, a hand was laid upon his 
shoulder. He started up, and saw a guard of the 
Tribunal, with a group of archers, who had come to 
take him. At that sight a shiver thrilled him to the 
heart. And he might well shiver, for he was at the 
mercy of an awful power. 

Casanova left his bed, dressed himself with care, 
and followed his captors; and thus in a few min- 
utes he was on his way, as when we saw him first, 
across the Bridge of Sighs towards the cells of the 
Piombi. 

These cells are the garrets of the Doge's palace — 
the name springing from the plaques of lead which 
form the palace-roof. Casanova was conducted by 
the jailer, a rough fellow named Lorenzo, who 
also, on occasion, served as hangman, along a cor- 
ridor, from which opened half a dozen little iron- 
studded doors. Through one of these, so dwarfish 
that his head on entering was almost on a level with 
his knees, he was thrust into a cell in which it was 
Impossible to stand erect, and in which the only 
light that entered glimmered through a narrow 
grating in the door. The cell was absolutely bare; 
but he was told that he might buy himself a chair, 
a table, and a bed. When these were brought, he 
was informed that food would be supplied him once 
a day, at daybreak. And he was left alone. 
291 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

The time was in the dog-days, and the hot leads 
turned the cell into an oven, in which, although he 
stripped himself of every rag, the prisoner was 
half melted. At nightfall, when he stretched him- 
self upon his pallet, his rest was broken by gigantic 
rats which scoured along the corridor, and by the 
great bell of St. Mark's tower pealing forth the 
hours. Nor were his meditations more consoling. 
How long this state of misery might last, he could 
not tell. He had undergone no trial — he had re- 
ceived no sentence. He might be left there for a 
week or for a year, or he might wither out his life- 
time in captivity. 

Day by day went by; August and September 
passed; and with them passed all hope of swift 
release. Sometimes the solitude of his cell was 
broken by the entrance of a fellow-prisoner; first, 
a count's valet, who had been caught eloping with 
his master's daughter and a box of jewels; then, a 
wizen, little red-eyed money-lender, like a screech- 
owl, who had tried to swindle his own partner. 
These delectable companions came and went; but 
the months passed, and Casanova was a captive still. 
Gradually, his whole thought fixed itself upon an- 
other road to freedom. Was there no chance of 
scheming an escape? 

At stated periods, when his cell was being swept, 
he was allowed to walk into the corridor, which 
was secured by a strong door. In a corner of the 
corridor was a heap of rubbish. Casanova pried 
into the heap and came across an iron bolt, an inch 
in thickness and some two feet long. This instru- 
ment, together with a fragment of black marble, he 
smuggled to his cell beneath his coat. There he 
set himself to grind the bolt into a point upon the 
piece of marble; and after a week's constant labor, 
during which his hands were worn to blisters, a long, 
sharp point was made. 

293 



CASANOVA 

Casanova was well acquainted with the palace 
buildings. He reckoned that his cell was situated 
just above the hall of the inquisitors, and he laid a 
plan accordingly. He resolved to pierce the cell- 
floor with his bolt, to descend into the hall by ropes 
made out of strips of bedding, to lie in wait until the 
door was opened, and then to make a rush for 
freedom. The project was a mad one; but the 
ache for liberty had brought him to that desperate 
temper which is ready for strange deeds — the tem- 
per which drove Baron Trenck to burrow like a 
mole beneath his prison-walls, and Monte Cristo, 
in the Chateau d'lf, to stitch himself into the dead 
man's sack, in order to be cast into the sea. 

He could not work, however, without light, and 
the wretched gleam which struggled through the 
grating lasted only about five hours a day; the rest 
was pitchy darkness. Casanova schemed again. 
He possessed a wooden bowl, from which he ate his 
broth, and a flask of salad-oil was part of his pro- 
visions; strips torn off his shirt provided him with 
tinder; while, by pretending that he had the tooth- 
ache, for which a gun-flint steeped in vinegar was 
esteemed a sovereign cure, he obtained a couple 
from the jailer. As soon as he was left in solitude, 
he struck his flints, and saw, with indescribable de- 
light, his rude lamp flare out bravely on the dark- 
ness of his cell. 

Armed with his bolt, and lighted by his lamp, 
he set to work to dig into the planks beneath his 
bed, gathering, as he worked, the fragments in a 
handkerchief, to be emptied into the heap of rub- 
bish in the corridor. Except at the hour at which 
the jailer visited the cells, he labored night and day. 
The work was hard and slow; but in three weeks 
the planks were pierced, and through a tiny hole, 
which could be speedily enlarged, he was able to 
peer down into the hall. 

293 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

His rope was made; and all was ready; and he 
was waiting, with a bounding heart, for night to 
bring the hour of his adventure, when all at once 
he heard, outside his cell, the bolts which locked 
the corridor shoot back. His first thought was 
that he was free — that his order of release had 
come at last. Trembling with hope, he saw his 
door fly open. It was the jailer come to take him 
to another cell. 

Casanova fell into his chair, half fainting. That 
instant was a bitter penance for his sins. All his 
work was lost, and it could never be repeated, for 
the hole would be discovered, and henceforth his 
actions would be strictly watched. In a stupor of 
despair, supported by the jailer, he tottered down 
the corridor, and along another gallery, at the end 
of which appeared the door of his new cell. His 
chair was carried with him by an archer. Under 
its seat he had contrived a place in which to hide 
his bolt; and, by good fortune, it was fixed there 
still. 

The jailer went to fetch the prisoner's bed. 
Casanova sat there motionless, awaiting the dis- 
covery. The result might be to him a case of life 
and death. What if the inquisitors condemned him 
to the Wells? Those dreaded dungeons were pits 
sunk beneath the basement of the palace — dark, 
deep, and slimy dens, which the rising tides, flowing 
through the gratings, kept continually half full of 
water, over which the wretched captive passed his 
life supported on a tressel, from which he could 
not stir without the risk of being drowned. Few 
prisoners issued from the Wells alive. One 
wretched man, a soldier of the name of Beguelin, 
who had betrayed his orders, had passed there 
twenty-seven years of life in death. Casanova 
called to mind this story. What if such a fate 
were now before him! 

294 



CASANOVA 

As he sat quaking at the thought, he heard the 
jailer rushing headlong back. With eyes of flame 
he burst into the cell. "Where is your chisel?" he 
cried furiously; "where did you get it? — who 
brought it in to you?" An inspiration rushed on 
Casanova. "You yourself," he answered boldly; 
"who else has had the chance?" 

The jailer was struck dumb; for if the inquisi- 
tors believed this story, which in fact seemed un- 
assailable, he could not set his life at a pin's fee. 
Tearing his hair, he darted from the cell, stopped 
up the hole with desperate eagerness, and suffered 
not a word of the attempt to reach the ears of the 
Tribunal. 

Casanova's wits had saved him from the Wells; 
but his chances of escape seemed gone for ever. 
The keeper, it is true, had failed to find his bolt; 
but how was he to use it? The cell was new — a 
scratch would have been visible; and moreover, 
every morning, when his food was brought, the 
keeper tapped the walls and floor, to ascertain that 
they were sound. In truth, his plight seemed 
hopeless. But fortune, who had tossed him up and 
down so often, was to give him one chance still. 

The cell next his contained two prisoners — an old 
count, Andro Asquin, and a monk whose name was 
Balbi. Balbi had a shelf of volumes in his cell, 
and these, in the spirit of a friendly neighbor, he 
lent to Casanova one by one — the jailer, who could 
not read, and who conceived no danger, being 
gained by a small bribe to take them to and fro. 
Casanova let his finger-nail grow long, used it as a 
pen, and wrote with fruit-juice on a fly-leaf a letter 
to the monk. Balbi found the writing, and replied 
in the same manner; and thus a secret correspond- 
ence was established. 

And now Casanova saw his way again. If Balbi 
had the bolt, he might make use of it without sus- 
295 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

picion; he might pierce the ceiling of his cell, might 
climb into the space beneath the palace roof, and 
might make a hole in Casanova's ceiling. Then the 
pair of them together might break through the roof, 
and so emerge upon the leads. 

The monk agreed. But how was he to get the 
bolt? Casanova solved this puzzle also. He con- 
cealed the bar between the binding and the back of 
an immense old folio Bible; and the hoodwinked 
jailer bore it safely into Balbi's cell. 

But how were the operations of the monk to be' 
concealed? Casanova told him. He was to pur- 
chase, through the keeper, a number of wooden 
figures of the saints, tall enough to reach the ceiling 
of his cell, which was barely six feet high. Balbi 
gave the order, and the saints arrived. Thence- 
forward, when the jailer paid his visits in the 
twilight of the morning, he found invariably the 
pious monk telling his beads before St. Philip or 
St. Francis. Who could have dreamt that the 
Apostles' heads concealed a gaping hole? 

The hole grew larger daily. In ten days the 
monk had pierced his ceiling, and had worked so 
far through Casanova's that a few hours' toil would 
end his task. No trace, of course, was visible in 
Casanova's cell. 

It was Monday, the 16th of October; the monk 
was working overhead; when Casanova heard again, 
with freezing blood, the bolts which locked the 
corridor fly back. He had barely time to give 
three knocks, their preconcerted sign of danger, 
when his door flew open, and a prisoner was 
thrust in. 

The new arrival was a little, skinny, ragged 
rascal, grasping a string of beads, and chattering 
with terror. Casanova, eager to discover whether 
this new comrade could be trusted, soon drew forth 
his story. His name was Sorodaci; he had been a 
296 



CASANOVA 

spy, devoted to the saints, and to the holy office; 
but having, in an attempt to ruin his own god- 
father, become suspected of false dealing with the 
Council, he had had the misfortune to find himself 
locked up instead of his relation. Here was a col- 
league for the plotters ! This reptile, dying for a 
chance of crawling back to favor, would give his 
ears to get an inkling of their scheme. A wink or 
a word to the jailer, and their hopes were gone 
for ever. 

Their work was at a standstill. For some days 
Casanova nourished the vain hope that Sorodaci 
would be speedily released; but after studying his 
man, who was a ninny eaten up with superstition, 
he resolved that he would fool him. Accordingly, 
he wrote to Balbi, directing him to set to work next 
day at three o'clock precisely. That night, he 
started from his bed, crying aloud that he had had 
a vision. The Virgin of the Rosary had appeared 
to him, and had assured him that an angel would 
descend to break their prison, and to set them free. 
At three o'clock that afternoon they might expect 
to hear him working at the roof above them. 

Sorodaci was dumbfounded. In vain he made a 
feint of disbelief; as three o'clock drew near he 
gasped and trembled; but when, precisely as St. 
Mark's gave forth the hour, the angel was heard 
working overhead, he fell upon his face in mortal 
terror. There was no more danger of his playing 
false. The angel worked; the jailer paid his visits; 
but Sorodaci never dreamt of treason. 

Two days passed; it was the last day of October, 
and Balbi set to work for the last time. At ten 
o'clock at night a hole appeared in the low ceiling, 
the monk came tumbling into Casanova's arms, and 
Sorodaci reeled against the wall in inexpressible 
amazement at perceiving that the angel had a thick 
black beard. 

297 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

Casanova seized the bolt, ascended through the 
hole, and made a trial upon the palace roof. To 
his delight, the planks were crumbling with the rot. 
In half an hour he touched the plaques of lead, 
wrenched up the fastenings with his bar, and thrust 
his head out of the hole. To his concern, the moon 
was shining brightly; but it was near its setting, 
and by midnight would have disappeared. 

Meanwhile the captives met in Balbi's cell. 
Count Asquin, Balbi's fellow-prisoner, old, fat, and 
suffering from a broken leg ill set, refused to risk 
his neck on such a venture. Sorodaci also, whose 
faith in this strange angel was much shaken, and 
who trembled at the thought that he might tumble 
into the canal, elected to remain. He would, he 
said, invoke St. Francis for their safety. The other 
two made ready. Casanova bound into a bundle the 
rich dress which he had brought into the prison; 
and each carried on his shoulder a coiled rope made 
out of strips of bedding. 

Midnight pealed from St. Mark's tower; the 
moon was touching the lagoons. The adventurers 
bade farewell to their companions; and Casanova, 
bidding the monk follow him, lifted the plaque of 
lead, and issued through the hole. 

The roof was steep and slippery. Casanova, on 
his hands and knees, digging his spike into the 
leads to keep himself from sliding, and trailing the 
monk behind him by his waist-band, crawled snail- 
like up the perilous slant, and at length perched 
panting on the summit. No sooner was the monk 
astride, than, in endeavoring to wipe his brow, he 
let his hat roll down the slope and plunge into the 
sea. His maladroitness might have been their ruin; 
for had the hat rolled down the other side, it would 
have dropped into the Piazza, and startled the 
sentries. 

The next thing was to fix their rope. But here 
298 



CASANOVA 

an unexpected difficulty stopped them — they could 
find no means by which to fasten it. For a whole 
hour Casanova crept about the roof, seeking for a 
point to which to loop his cable, but in vain. He 
discovered nothing but a mason's ladder, far too 
short to reach the ground, lying beside a heap of 
plaster and a pile of plaques of lead. At length 
he was compelled to change his tactics. Several 
dormer windows opened on the roof, through one 
of which they might descend into the palace. To 
do so was to run their heads into the lion's den; 
but there was no alternative, and it was possible 
that, by some rare good luck, the lions might be 
caught asleep or hoodwinked. Casanova, with his 
bolt, wrenched off the light iron grill which barred 
a window, broke the narrow leaded panes, and the 
monk, while Casanova held the rope, slid down into 
the room below. 

In order to descend in turn, Casanova dragged 
the ladder to the window; but in the attempt to 
introduce it, he very nearly put an end to his ad- 
ventures. His foot slipped, he went rolling down 
the roof, and in an instant found himself suspended 
by his elbows over the abyss. Thus hanging be- 
tween life and death, his only chance was in one 
desperate effort — if that failed him, he was lost. 
Collecting all his strength, he writhed his body 
upwards, and sank gasping on the gutter. Safe, 
but sick with horror, he lay there long without the 
power of motion. 

At length, his strength returning, he lowered the 
ladder to the monk, who held it in his arms while 
he descended. The room in which they found them- 
selves was pitchy dark. They groped and found 
a door, through which they passed into a room in 
which were several chairs and a great table, but 
from which they sought in vain to find an exit. At 
length they found themselves compelled to wait for 
299 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

daybreak. Casanova, utterly exhausted, threw him- 
self upon the floor, and, with the coil of rope for 
pillow, fell into a death-like sleep. It was the first 
which he had snatched for several nights. When he 
woke, the first gleam of day was stealing in, and 
the monk, in a frenzy of impatience, was shaking 
him with violence. In the grey morning light they 
found the door, and issued through a gallery, the 
walls of which were lined with niches, wherein the 
archives of the State were stored in parchment rolls, 
down a narrow flight of stone steps closed by a 
glass door, into the Doge's council chamber. The 
door of this was fastened, but the panels were not 
thick, and in half an hour the never-failing bolt had 
pierced a gaping hole at a height of five feet from 
the floor. The monk, whom Casanova held sus- 
pended by the legs, went through head first with 
ease; but Casanova, who had to follow without help, 
tore his legs and sides upon the jagged splinters, 
till they dripped with blood. Descending two more 
flights, they reached the massive doorway of the 
royal stairway. To their consternation it was 
locked. To break through it was quite hopeless. 
They might as well have tried to pierce the marble 
walls. 

Nothing was left but to try stratagem. 

Casanova, all in blood and rags, sat down, untied 
his bundle, and put on his gorgeous coat, his white 
silk stockings, and his gold-laced hat with the white 
plume. His rich embroidered mantle he bestowed 
upon the monk. Then he thrust his head from a 
side grating, and attracted the attention of some 
persons in the court. These men called the door- 
keeper, who, thinking that he must have locked in 
some one over-night in error, came hurrying up in 
trepidation with his keys. 

Casanova, through a cranny, watched him coming. 
The instant the door opened, he walked out quickly, 
300 



CASANOVA 

followed by the monk; and before the warder had 
recovered from his stupor, the two had vanished 
down the Giant's Stairs, pushed across to the canal, 
sprang into a gondola, and were skimming over the 
water towards Mestro. 

It was a lovely morning; the air was clear and 
pure, the sun was rising brightly. The contrast 
with the scene from which he had escaped struck 
Casanova to the soul; and, to the amazement of the 
stolid monk, he burst into a flood of tears. 

They were free. But could they keep their free- 
dom? The danger, as they knew, was far from 
over; the hue and cry was still to come. 

At Mestro they hired a carriage for Treviso, 
where, having spent their stock of money, they 
plunged on foot into the woods. There, the better 
to escape detection, they parted company, and each 
took his way alone. 

By two o'clock that afternoon Casanova had 
walked four and twenty miles. His plight was 
wretched to the last degree; though dropping with 
fatigue, and faint with hunger, he durst not venture 
near a public inn. Finding himself at length in 
sight of a large private house, he demanded of a 
shepherd, whose flock was feeding on a hillside, to 
whom the place belonged, and was informed that 
the owner's name was Captain Campagne, the chief 
of the Venetian Guards. At that name of terror, 
Casanova trembled; then, by an impulse over which 
he had no control, and which he was never able to 
explain, he walked straight down the hill towards 
the dwelling of the man of whom, of all others, he 
had the most to dread. 

In the yard, a little boy was playing whip-top. 
On Casanova asking where his father was, he called 
his mother, a young and pretty woman, who in- 
formed the stranger that the captain had just been 
summoned for three days to Venice, in order to 
301 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

hunt down two prisoners who had escaped from the 
Piombi. 

Casanova breathed again. The situation was one 
after his own heart. 

"I regret to find my godfather from home," he 
said; "but I am charmed to make the acquaintance 
of his lovely wife." 

"Your godfather !" cried the lady, "why, then, 
you are His Excellence Monsieur Veturi, who has 
promised to be sponsor to our child — I am delighted 
to receive you. My husband will be distressed that 
he was not at home." And with a thousand such 
civilities Casanova was welcomed into the house 
and a feast was set before him — after which, as he 
explained the sorry state of his apparel, his wounds, 
and his fatigue, by stating that he had had a fall 
whilst hunting in the forest, he was conducted to 
the most luxurious sleeping-chamber in the house. 
From three o'clock that afternoon till six next 
morning he slept like a stone figure. Then he 
awoke, dressed himself, walked unperceived out of 
the house, and went his way— half trembling at his 
rashness, half laughing at the picture of the cap- 
tain's face when he should hear the story, and 
wholly grateful to the captain's pretty wife. 

And now the worst was over. Without much 
misadventure he begged his way to Bolzan, which 
was beyond the State of Venice, where he could 
laugh at his pursuers. Thence he despatched a 
messenger to Signer Bragadin for a supply of 
money. The signor sent him all he wanted; and 
Casanova was once more rich and free. 

He was free ! His great escape from the Piombi 
was a thing accomplished; and it was this of which 
we set ourselves to tell. At this point therefore we 
might leave him; but the color of romance which 
wraps the sequel of his story tempts us to let it pass 
before us rapidly. 

302 



CASANOVA 

From Bolzan he made his way to Paris, where 
he received an ardent welcome. The fame of his 
escape was there before him. All society desired to 
hear from his own lips the details of his unprece- 
dented exploit; and soon, from the youngest page 
to Madame Pompadour herself, all tongues were 
talking of the bolt, the lamp, the monk's cell full 
of wooden saints, and Sorodaci gaping at the angel. 
For his own part, Casanova was resolved to run no 
further risk of such adventures; his life in future 
should be sage and steady. But as his purse grew 
light, his resolutions vanished. He looked about 
him for a victim; and in the Marquise d'Urfe, a 
dowager whose family was of the old nobility of 
France, he found one after his own heart. The 
Marquise was, in truth, a female counterpart of 
Signor Bragadin. Her whole soul was devoted to 
the magic arts; her library was crammed with books 
on sorcery; her laboratory contained a never-dying 
furnace, over which a mystic powder had for fifteen 
years been glowing in a crucible, in the confidence 
that it would turn at last into the philosopher's 
stone. A belief in genies, with a burning wish to 
have the power to summon them, was Madame 
d'Urfe weakness. Casanova showed her his secret 
charm, which he assured her that he worked by the 
assistance of a genie of the name of Parlis. From 
that moment Madame d'Urfe was his slave. Mean- 
time he lived in the old lady's palace, drove about 
the city in her carriage, lived upon her purse, and 
was even reported to be about to marry her in 
secret. 

But long continuance in one mode of living was 
against his nature. Sometimes in company with 
Madame d'Urfe, at other times alone, he rambled 
over Europe. City after city was the scene of his 
adventures. At Stuttgart he struck up an acquaint- 
ance with three officers, who invited him to supper, 
303 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

put a drug into his wine, and in a short time fleeced 
him of his purse, his watch, a diamond snufF-box, 
and notes-of-hand for fifty thousand francs. But 
when the winners called next day to cash their 
notes, he told them bluntly that they were a gang 
of sharpers, and might whistle for their coin. The 
officers in fury flew to court and gained the Prince's 
ear; and Casanova, to his consternation, found him- 
self condemned to pay the whole amount, under 
pain of having his possessions seized and sold, or of 
being made a common soldier in the Prince's petty 
army. Meantime he was kept prisoner in his rooms. 
By day, a sentinel was posted in the ante-chamber; 
at night, his door was locked and the key taken 
by the guard. 

But, poisoned, tricked, imprisoned as he was, 
Casanova's wits were still his own. One night, 
before his door was locked, he sent his valet to the 
sentry with a gift. As the men were speaking, the 
valet, under the pretext of snuffing the single can- 
dle by which the ante-chamber was illumined, 
snufl'ed it out. Casanova was upon the watch; 
shoes in hand, with all his valuables about him, 
he stole out in the darkness past the sentry, crept 
downstairs, and darted forth into the night. The 
candle was relighted, the sentry locked the pris- 
oner's door as usual, and departed. When he 
returned the next morning, he found the three cred- 
itors waiting for admittance; and the four men 
went into the room together. They saw a figure 
resting on the bed. They addressed it — but in vain; 
they shook it — and a wig-block covered with a wig 
rolled out upon the ground. Casanova, fearing lest 
the guard might peep into the room before he 
locked the door, had left a dvrnimy to befool him. 

While his bamboozled enemies, with faces a yard 
long, were gaping at his proxy, Casanova was en 
route for Zurich. A new desire possessed him; he 
304 



CASANOVA 

was weary of adventures; he sighed for a hermit's 
cell and a life of contemplation. 

On the morning after his arrival he left his bed 
at daybreak and wandered forth into the mountains. 
Rapt in meditation, he had rambled many miles, 
when he perceived the grey walls of an ancient 
monastery, surrounded by the solitary hills. From 
the chapel came the voices of the monks at matins. 
Casanova entere^. When the service ended he was 
civilly accosted by the abbot, who conducted him 
to see the convent; after which, in a luxurious 
chamber, a dinner for an epicure was set before 
them. Here was the life for Casanova ! He de- 
termined to become a brother in the service of our 
Lady of Einsiedel. 

The abbot proposed a fortnight for reflection. 
It was agreed that on its expiration he should call 
on Casanova at his inn. Casanova returned to 
Zurich in the abbot's carriage, and passed some 
days in pious meditations. But the night before 
the abbot's visit, as he was sitting in his window, 
Casanova changed his mind. 

The renegade then resumed his wanderings. 
Again he was to be descried at city after city; at 
Lausanne, visiting Voltaire, and charming the great 
writer and his guests with the fire with which he 
quoted Ariosto — at Yaucluse, weeping at the fovm- 
tain — at Rome, receiving from the Pope, for what 
merit is not clear, the cross of the Order of the 
Golden Spur — at Naples, blazing amidst courtiers, 
and kissing the hand of the child-king — again at 
the Eternal City glittering in the carnival — at Paris, 
wheedling Madame d'Urfe out of gold and gems. 
Then he took a whim to visit London. But his 
experience in England was not happy. The weather 
was all fog. King George HI, to whom he was 
presented by the French ambassador, impressed him 
merely as a short, fat man with a red face and a 
30.5 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

red coat, a plumed three-cornered hat, and a strong 
resemblance to a cook. The people were "pure 
savages." Nor did his ill impressions end there. 
An old dame and her daughter, who had fleeced him 
of some money, brought a charge against him, of 
having, in a fit of passion, thrown a pin-puff at 
the damsel. As Casanova was returning from a 
ball at daybreak, two watchmen stopped his chair 
and carried him before a magistrate at Newgate. 
Casanova eyed his judge with feelings of the liveliest 
curiosity— a curiosity which the other, had he known 
the history of the culprit, would have returned with 
interest; for the judge was Henry Fielding, the 
famous novelist. 

Fielding bound the prisoner over in two sureties 
to keep the peace. His tailor appeared for him, 
and he was set at liberty. But his ignominious and 
absurd position was to be rendered still more gall- 
ing. The insulted siren bought a parrot, taught it 
a phrase of words, and hung it in a public place; 
and Casanova, as he happened to pass by, heard its 
harsh voice screaming to a crowd of laughing loung- 
ers, "Casanova is a rascal." It need scarcely here 
be added that the parrot spoke the truth. 

He had by this time spent his stock of money, 
and was about to sell his jewels, when he happened 
to borrow a hundred guineas from a chance ac- 
quaintnace, Baron Stenau, who gave him a bill 
which bore the name of a respected firm at Cadiz. 
Casanova cashed the bill, which proved to be a 
forgery. Stenau had vanished; and Casanova found 
himself in signal danger of ending his career by 
being hanged. 

He fled to Dover, crossed to Calais, and wan- 
dered from city to city to Berlin. He had some 
thought of taking service under the great Frederick 
— that is, he was prepared, for a sufficient recom- 
pense, to glitter like a popinjay about the court, 
306 



CASANOVA 

decked with a gold chain and his Order of the Spur. 
The king offered him a post as overlooker in a 
college of cadets. Casanova went to visit this estab- 
lishment, and found a barrack thrust away behind 
some stables, full of great, gaunt rooms with beds 
of sacking, in one of which apartments, at the 
moment of his visit, the king himself was flourish- 
ing his cane and abusing an overlooker who had 
left a nightshirt on a bed. This did not altogether 
jump with Casanova's notions. He turned his back 
upon the city in disgust, and wandered to St. 
Petersburg. There he was presented by Count 
Panin to the Empress Catherine, and had the 
pleasure of listening to her Majesty's opinions on 
the reformation of the calendar, and of laughing at 
the statues in the royal gardens. But neither here 
did he obtain the offer of a post to suit him; and 
accordingly he left for Warsaw, where he was more 
successful. King Stanislaus Augustus, to whom he 
was presented, was struck by some of his remarks 
upon the classic poets, desired to study Ariosto with 
him, and would probably have made him his own 
secretary, but for the event which we have now to 
tell. 

The king's chamberlain, Count Xavier Branicki, 
a young and dashing officer, picked a quarrel with 
him. The count insulted Casanova; and next morn- 
ing Casanova sent a challenge to the count, which 
was instantly accepted. 

In Branicki's coach-and-six, attended by some 
officers of the court, they drove to a sequestered 
region of a park. A trifling incident aided to 
decide the fortune of the day. One of the officers 
produced two huge horse-pistols, loaded them, and 
laid them cross-wise on the ground. Casanova 
chose one pistol; Branicki took the other, remark- 
ing as he did so, "That is an excellent weapon you 
have there." "I am going to test it on your head," 
SOT 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

said Casanova coolly; and probably this piece of 
braggardism saved his life. Branicki was a first- 
rate marksman; but Casanova's answer shook his 
nerve. In order to protect his head, he took up a 
position of constraint, which made his aim unsteady. 
The two were stationed at a distance of ten paces; 
the word was given, and the two shots were fired at 
the same instant. Branicki's bullet shattered the 
left hand of Casanova. Casanova's shot Branicki 
through the body. 

Casanova hurried to his fallen foe, and raised his 
head with his wounded arm. As he did so, the 
count's attendants drew their swords in fury, and 
would have cut him down. But Branicki was an 
opponent worthy of the days of chivalry. He 
ordered the assailants to stand back and to respect 
the laws of honor. For himself, he believed that 
he was dying. "You have killed me," he said to 
Casanova. "The king will never pardon you. Look 
to your own safety. Take my purse, and my ribbon 
of the Aigle Blanc as a safeguard, and fly from 
Poland for your life." Casanova refused the gen- 
erous offer; but from that instant the antagonists 
were friends. Branicki was carried to a neighbor- 
ing inn, where, after a long hovering between life 
and death, he recovered slowly. Casanova stole 
back into the city, and took refuge in a convent 
till his wounds were healed, which was not until he 
had been forced to quarrel with his doctors to pre- 
vent their cutting off his hand. 

The king, at Branicki's entreaty, forbore to seize 
and hang him. But his career was over. He left 
the cit}^ as he had left so many others, and once 
more rambled up and down the earth. At length 
he roved to Spain and to Madrid. 

With this romantic episode the curtain falls for a 
long interval upon that drama of a thousand scenes, 
308 



CASANOVA 

the life of Casanova. It is to rise once more for 
the f,nale; but more than twenty years have first 
to pass — 3^ears of the events of whicli we have no 
record. The freaks, the follies, and the adventures 
of that long term are wrapped from us in darkness, 
till suddenly, upon a certain day in the year 1789, 
the curtain of the night again flies back, and 
Casanova is discovered to us among the guests of 
the ambassador of Venice at Paris. Another of the 
guests on that occasion was Count Walstein, with 
whom he fell into a conversation toucl]ing the arts 
of magic and the old "clavicula," or magic charm 
of Solomon. Walstein, delighted with his new ac- 
quaintance, offered on the spot to make him the 
librarian of his castle in Bohemia. Casanova, old, 
poor, and weary of adventures, grasped at the pro- 
posal. The very next day, in the count's company, 
he left for Castle Dux, near Toeplitz — the abode 
in which he was to spend, in peace and quietness, 
the fourteen years of life which yet remained to 
him. 

A librarian is not every day made out of an 
adventurer. But Casanova's character was strangely 
mingled. He was, as the parrot summed him up, a 
rascal; he was a mixture of Gil Bias, Cagliostro, 
and the Wandering Jew; but he was also a scholar, 
a poet, and a wit. To the count he was in every 
way an acquisition. He had looked with his own 
eyes on every side of life; he was the prince of 
talkers and companions; and the count, and the 
gay guests who thronged the castle, were never 
wanting for diversion, when Casanova told, across 
the table or by the fireside, the many-colored tales 
of his career. 



309 



JOHN CHARLES FREMONT 

JOHN CHARLES FREMONT holds a unique 
position among the explorers of Western 
America. Although he gained for himself the proud 
title of the "Pathfinder of the Rocky Mountains," 
his field of operations covered more than the terri- 
tory indicated by this. He took the country west 
of the Mississippi and explored it thoroughly to the 
Pacific coast. He took a great territory, large 
enough for several explorers to win renown upon, 
and left little for any man to do who came after. 
As it would be impossible to give, outside of any 
extensive volume, anything like a history of this 
life of many events, only a few stirring scenes are 
given here, for the most part described in his own 
words. They show the daring character of the 
man and the dangers of the exploration period in 
the "Great West." 

Fremont was descended from an ancient and 
distinguished French family, and was born in 
Savannah, Ga., in 1813. By the time he was six- 
teen he had been well grounded by his Scotch 
tutor, Ferguson, in I^atin and Greek, Of the study 
of the latter language he was especially fond, and 
he tells in his fascinating memoirs with what de- 
light he pored over the plays of the old Greek 
dramatists, and hailed with enthusiasm every new 
volume that came across the water to his instructor. 
Fremont entered tlie junior class at Charleston 
College. Here he distinguished himself by his bril- 
liancy, disregard of college rules, and by falling 
desperately in love, at the age of seventeen, with a 
beautiful girl, whose father and mother came from 
the West Indies. 

310 



JOHN CHARLES FREMONT 

After leaving college, Fremont found that it was 
necessary for him to carve out a career for himself, 
as an elder brother was already doing. A friend 
of the family, Mr. Poinsett, Minister to Mexico, and 
later Secretary of War, secured for the young man 
a position as teacher on board the warship Natchez, 
which was about to sail for South America. It 
was the first taste of travel that, later, was to become 
such a passion with him, and gave to the first half 
of the nineteeneth century one of its most illustrious 
names. While anchored off Rio Janeiro he, in con- 
junction with a young midshipman named Hurst, 
was able to save the lives of two young ofl&cers 
who had agreed to fight a duel with pistols, the 
combatants to fire at twelve paces. If the affair had 
been carried out according to the plans of the prin- 
cipals, it would probably have resulted in the death 
of both, firing at such short range. Two officers 
had fought but a short time before and one of 
them killed. Fremont and Hurst were chosen as 
seconds for the second duel, and they arranged to 
charge the pistols with powder only. If the duelists 
demanded bullets after the first fire, they decided 
that there would be nothing to do but to let them 
have their way, and to load the pistols in the cus- 
tomary manner. 

The party of four got away from the ship without 
attracting particular notice, and found a sandy 
beach well suited for the bloody work in hand. 
The seconds made the necessary preparations with 
due solemnity, placed their men, and gave them the 
pistols. The seconds withdrew to one side and 
called, "Fire." A cloud of smoke burst from the 
muzzles of the heavy dueling pieces, but there was 
no hiss of bullets in the air, no prostrate forms 
upon the beach. The fighters were dumfounded, 
for, according to their aim, each was sure that the 
other must have a large hole bored through his 
311 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

person, through which the traditional ray of "day- 
light" should be at that moment shining. 

The seconds came forward and declared the 
affair off, as each had failed to make a hit at the 
first fire, and they also said that the cause of the 
quarrel was not serious enough to warrant a second 
encounter. After some protests, they carried the 
duelists off to the ship. Probably, if the ruse had 
been discovered, both Fremont and Hurst would 
have been challenged by the men for whom they 
had acted as seconds; but both felt it was worth 
the risk. 

After his return from the cruise, he received an 
appointment as an assistant engineer in the United 
States Topographical Corps, and it was during his 
first year's work with this organization that he 
found out what was really to be his life's work. 

"I gladly accepted the chance that fell to me," 
he says in his autobiography, "and spent a summer 
in congenial work among the mountains of South 
Carolina and Tennessee. There were several par- 
ties, each under an able engineer. That to which I 
belonged was under the direction of Lieutenant 
White, a graduate of West Point, who knew well 
how to make our work agreeable. We were en- 
gaged in running experimental lines, and the plot- 
ting of the field notes sometimes kept us up until 
midnight. Our quarters were sometimes at a vil- 
lage inn, and more frequently at some farmer's 
house, where milk and honey and many good things 
were welcome to an appetite sharpened by all-day 
labor on foot and a tramp of several miles back- 
ward and forward, morning and evening. It was 
cheery, wholesome work. The summer weather in 
the mountains was fine, and the cool water abun- 
dant, and the streams lined with azaleas. As often 
is with flowers of that color, the white azaleas were 
fragrant. The survey was a kind of picnic, with 
313 



JOHN CHARLES FREMONT 

work enough to give it zest, and we were all sorry 
when it was over. The survey being suspended, I 
returned home, and only casually, if ever, met 
again the men with whom I had been associated. 
General Morrell, with whom many j'ears after I 
lived as a neighbor on the Hudson, was the only 
one I remember to have met. 

"It had been the policy of President Jefferson, 
suggested by his acquisition of the Louisiana Ter- 
ritory, to remove all the Indian tribes from the 
Eastern States to the west of the Mississippi. This 
policy was adopted and carried forward by Mr. 
Monroe, and completed under President Jackson. 
The last to be removed were the Cherokees, who 
inhabited a district where the States of North 
Carolina, Tennessee and Georgia cornered together. 
This territory was principally in Georgia, and con- 
sisted in greater part of a body of land ceded to 
the Cherokees by Georgia in 1783. 

"For the good of the bordering States, and for 
the welfare of the Indians as well, this was a wise 
and humane measure. But the Cherokees were 
averse to the change. They were unwilling to leave 
their homes, where they had been domiciled for 
half a century. 

"The country was mountainous and the face of 
it not accurately known. Looking to the contin- 
gency of hostilities already threatening with the 
Indians, Captain Williams was ordered to make a 
military reconnaissance of the territory they occu- 
pied. I went with him as one of his assistants. 

"The accident of this employment curiously began 
a period of years of like work for me among similar 
scenes. Here I found the path which I was 'destined 
to walk.' Through many of the years to come, the 
occupation of my prime of life was to be among 
Indians and in waste places. Other events which 
intervened were incidents in this and grew out of 
313 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

it. There were to be no more years wasted in 
tentative efforts to find a way for myself. The work 
was laid out, and it began here with a remarkable 
continuity of purpose." 

Hardly was the Cherokee Survey over, when he 
was appointed, by President Van Buren, a second 
lieutenant in Topographical Corps at Washington. 
At about the same time the Secretary of War had 
invited Mr. Nicollet, a famous French scientist and 
explorer, to come to Washington and make arrange- 
ments for exploring the region between the Missis- 
sippi and Missouri Rivers. Fremont was ordered 
west as Mr. Nicollet's assistant, and joined him at 
St. Louis. With the aid of the officers of the Fur 
Company and of the old French residents of the 
city, who took great interest in the expedition that 
was to be led by their distinguished countryman, 
they were soon fitted out with all necessary supplies. 
They were given an escort of trained Indian fight- 
ers and frontiersmen, mostly Canadians, who knew 
well the country, that was to be first traversed by 
the explorers. 

This expedition was the first of many that was 
to give Fremont his well-earned title of the "Path- 
finder." The party went west by canoe and trail, 
until it reached tlie famous "Red Pipe Stone Quarry." 
Here they had planned to turn at right angles 
to their western line of march, and go northward. 
The country over which they were now making their 
way had been from time immemorial a battle- 
ground for contending tribes. Every year it had 
been crossed by war-bands of Foxes, Sacs and 
Sioux. The explorers had not been long on their 
way before they discovered that they were being 
followed by a party of redskins, who kept just 
within sight, but showed no disposition to close up 
with them during the day. Every night outposts 
were established by Fremont, to guard against a 
314 



JOHN CHARLES FREMONT 

surprise and to prevent the possibility of their 
horses being stampeded from the camp, a favorite 
manoeuvre vv'ith the red warriors. Strict orders 
were given that no one should get beyond the sight 
of the main party. After they had racked their 
nerves for some days with false alarms, the pursuing 
party came up, and proved to be a band of friendly 
Sioux, who, fearing that the explorers might be in 
their country with hostile intent, had been carefully 
watching them. The whites and Indians camped 
together at the quarry for several days, and Fre- 
mont and the rest of his party carved their names 
on a high pillar of rock that jutted above the 
quarry-bed, and there they may be read to-day as 
clearly as at the time when they were first chiseled. 
According to the legends firmly believed in by the 
Sioux, the quarry was guarded by a spirit that 
always sent a thunder-storm whenever a party 
appeared at the place. It is interesting to note 
that hardly had the camp been pitched, when every 
one was drenched and the pipe-stone walls echoed 
with peals of thunder. 

Once Fremont went on a hunting expedition, 
accompanied by the whole village of Red Dog, an 
Indian chief. The motley party, men, women, chil- 
dren and wild dogs, trooped southward for several 
days to the hunting grounds, giving Fremont a 
good opportunity to study Indian ways and prairie- 
craft, that were to stand him in good stead in his 
own expeditions in later years. Once, three of the 
party were on a separate hunt after big game. 
Wearied by their long ride they camped in the 
deep grass of the prairie, under the open sky. 
Shortly after midnight they were awakened by a 
loud crackling. All jumped to their feet, and were 
startled to find that their camping ground was en- 
circled by a sheet of flame that was bearing down 
on them with frightful speed. They got their 
315 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

horses and dogs tethered together, and then, from 
their own narrow space, sent out a prairie fire of 
their own. As soon as their own fire had burned 
over suflBcient space, they led their horses and dogs 
on to the blackened ground, and the larger fire 
swept up to and around the hunters, leaving them 
unharmed. 

Fremont made a second trip with Nicollet, and, 
after this had been brought to a successful con- 
clusion, returned to Washington, where the results 
of the work was to be tabulated. He was" soon 
making plans for an expedition of his own, for 
which he secured the sanction of the United States 
Government. The design was to make a thorough 
exploration of the Rocky Mountains, then prac- 
tically unknown to the American people. It was 
the land of mystery, the terra incognita, to be 
spoken of in dread as t' e abode of relentless 
savages, and fearful beasts that had yet found 
no place in the pages of the natural histories of 
the day. He started in 184:3, and explored the 
South Pass, through which tens of thousands were 
to find their way to California. He designated the 
points at which the United States forts were after- 
ward built, and made an exhaustive study of the 
botany, geology and meteorology of the region. 
Ivater, he explored the Salt Lake region, discovered 
the great basin of the Sierra Nevada, and "deter- 
mined the geographical position of the west portion 
of the North American continent." 

On his third expedition he was nearly killed by 
the discharge of one of his own firearms. He was 
on his way to the Utah Pass, and the march had 
been a constant delight to the hunters of the party. 
Elk, buffalo, and deer were seen frequently. Fre- 
mont rode off one day by himself, in order to get 
the superb views from one of the nearby mountains. 
He came suddenly upon a small herd of buffalo, 
316 



JOHN CHARLES FREMONT 

and putting spurs to his horse, he at once gave 
chase. After a brisk and exciting race over broken 
ground, he drew up beside one of the. largest ani- 
mals in the herd and drew his pistol from the 
holster to bring the creature down. Suddenly, 
before he could aim, the piece went oflF with a 
crash, and the ball sang by Fremont's ear. The 
pistol was of the old, heavy, hair-trigger type. "It 
is in this way," he wrote later, "that men have , 
been sometimes lost in the mountains and never 
found. They lie like the trunk of a fallen tree, 
worn by the snow and rain, until the tall, rank 
grass covers and hides them. My trail would not 
have been taken in time, and it would have been 
by the merest chance that any hunter would have 
passed the spot." 

One of the men on whom Fremont depended in 
his expeditions was Kit Carson, the famous scout. 
Both were in innumerable conflicts with Indians. 
When one reads the story of their lives, it seems 
almost incredible that they could encounter the 
perils they did — ambush and open battle — and es- 
cape to tell the tale. One scene from Fremont's 
own pen will well illustrate the Indian attacks to 
which they were constantly exposed. 

They were on the third expedition, and were in 
the Mariposa River country. 

"Continuing along we came upon broad and 
deeply worn trails which had been freshly traveled 
by large bands of horses, apparently coming from 
the San Joaquin valley, but we had heard enough to 
know that they came from the settlements on the i 
coast. These, and indications from horse bones, 
dragged about by wild animals, wolves or bears, 
warned us that we were approaching villages of ' 
horse-thief Indians, a party of whom had just 
returned from a successful raid. Immediately upon 
striking their trail, I sent forward four of my best 
31T 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

men, Dick Owens and Maxwell and two Delawares. 
I followed after with the rest of the party, but 
soon the Indian signs became so thick, trail after 
trail coming into that on which we were traveling, 
that I saw we were getting into a stronghold of th( 
horse thieves, and we rode rapidly forward. Afte. 
a few miles of sharp riding, a small stream running 
over a slaty bed, with clumps of oaks around, 
tempted me into making an early halt. Good grass 
was abundant, and this spot not long since had 
been the camping ground of a village, and was evi- 
dently one of their favorite places, as the ground 
was whitened with the bones of many horses. We 
had barely thrown off our saddles, and not yet 
turned the horses loose, when the intermittent re- 
port of rifles, in the way one does not mistake, and 
the barking of many dogs and sounds of shouting 
faintly reaching us, made us quickly saddle up 
again and ride to the sounds at speed. Four men 
were left to guard the camp. In a short half mile 
we found ourselves suddenly in front of a large 
Indian village, not two hundreds yards away. More 
than two hundred Indians were advancing on each 
side of a small hill, on the top of which were our 
men, where a clump of oaks and rocks amidst 
bushes made a good defence. My men had been 
discovered by the Indians, and suddenly found 
themselves in the midst of them, but jumped from 
their horses and took to their rocks, which hap- 
pened to be a strong place to fight from. The 
Indians were shouting at them in Spanish, and the 
women and children at the village howling at their 
best. Our men were only endeavoring to stand 
them off until we should get up, as they knew we 
would not be far behind. The Indians had nearly 
surrounded the knoll, and were about getting pos- 
session of the horses when we came into view. Our 
shout, as we charged up the hi! J was answered by 
318 



JOHN CHARLES FREMONT 

the yell of the Delawares as they dashed down the 
hill to recover their animals, and the reports of 
Owens' and Maxwell's rifles. Owens had signaled 
out the foremost Indian, who did not go any 
further up the hill, and the others drew a little 
back toward the village. Anxious for the safety 
of the men left behind, I profited by the surprise 
to withdraw towards our camp, checking the In- 
dians by an occasional rifle shot, with the range of 
which they seemed to think they were acquainted. 
They followed us to the camp and scattered among 
the rocks and trees, whence they harangued us, 
bestowing on us liberally all the epithets they could, 
telling us what they would do with us. Many of 
them had been Mission Indians, and spoke Spanish 
well. 'Wait,' they said, 'Esperato Carrajos (wait 
until morning). There are two big villages up in 
the mountains close by, we have sent for the chief, 
he will come down before morning with all the 
people, and you will die. None of you shall go 
back, and we will have all your horses.' 

"I divided the camp into two watches, putting 
myself into the last one. As soon as it was fully 
dark, each man of the guard crept to his post. We 
heard the women and children retreating toward the 
mountains. Before midnight the Indians had gen- 
erally withdrawn, only now and then a shout to 
show us that they were on hand and attending to 
us. Otherwise nothing occurred to break the still- 
ness of the night, but a shot from one of the 
Delawares, fired at a wolf as it jumped over a log. 
In our experienced camp no one moved, but Dela- 
ware Charley crept up to me to let me know what 
had caused the shot of the Delaware, who, with 
hostile Indians around, instinctively fired at a 
moving thing that might have been an Indian 
crawling toward our horses. 

"We were only sixteen men. Keeping in the oak 
31& 



HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 

belt on the course I was pursuing would bring us 
further among these villages, and I would have 
surely lost the cattle, and perhaps some men and 
horses from attacks from these Indians. In the 
morning, therefore, I turned down one of these 
streams and quickly gained the open country of the 
lower hills. We had gained but a little distance 
on this course, when an Indian was discovered 
riding at speed toward the plain where the upper 
San Joaquin reached the valley. Maxwell was 
ahead, and not far from the Indian when he came 
into sight, and knowing at once that his object was 
to bring Indians from the river to intercept us, 
rode to him. The Indian was well mounted, but 
Maxwell better. With Godey and two of the Dela- 
wares I followed. It was open ground, over rolling 
hills, and we were all in sight of one another; but 
before we could reach them, a duel was taking 
place between Maxwell and the Indian, both on 
foot, Maxwell with pistols, and the Indian with 
arrows. They were only ten or twelve paces apart. 
I saw the Indian fall as we rode up. I would 
have taken him prisoner and saved his life, but it 
was too late." 

Fremont took an active part in bringing Cali- 
fornia under American control. He cleared th 
Mexican troops out of the northern end of tha 
district. In 184-6 he was made a lieutenant-coloneJ 
and governor of California, and it was he who 
finally received from Mexico the surrender of their 
claims on that territory. The next year he pur- 
chased a valuable estate in California, and settled 
there in 1949. In 1853 he made his fifth grea 
expedition, enduring such hardships that he anr 
his party nearly perished. In 1856 he was a candi 
date for the Presidency of the United States, anc 
durmg the first part of the Civil War a major 
general. He died in New York City in 1890. 

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